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The Wheel Dreaming Journal – a Month on the Road Round Oz – 2008

This is a Blog, from 2009, when I did a promotional trip through the East coast of Australia. I haven’t altered anything, or updated it, rather I hope it paints a picture of a point in time and helps overseas friends understand Oz a little more. I’ll sort out some photos to accompany the tale over the next couple of days.

So, four weeks on the road, selling the Wheatbelt and the Motorplex, with a weekend at Bathurst and another at the Clipsal 500 in Adelaide. I’ve decided to write a daily Blog for friends and anyone else half interested. I’ll try to update it each night, although occasionally it might be every couple of nights. There are also related Photo Albums, with Wheel Dreaming “On the Road” albums for each week, plus individual albums for the Bathurst and Clipsal motorsport weekends. Just click on the album you want to look at and the photos accompanying the tale will all come up. I hope you enjoy the ride, where ever it may take us both. All Good Things, Greg

Friday 1 February

Four cases of Vasse Felix, where to stow them? Ah yes, in the boot behind the back seat. Cartons and cartons of brochures, laptop, camera, mobiles, IPod, all plugged in. Reverse angle out of the drive – the car is sitting low – packed to the gunnels. Go.

Three fresh crosses, grey sand, blackened trunks. The section of road where the truckies died outside of Southern Cross on New Years Day, is only a kilometre or so long, just a narrow band, where the raging flames swept uncontrollably through. Two more minutes, they’d have been safe. How fierce was it!

At Coolgardie, I turn for Norseman. I haven’t played on this road, since Charley and I swapped around an XKR and his DB6. Dorrington would call us hoons, which is why they cannot reign in the road toll. We could help, but they will not listen. Lake Cowan outside of Norseman is a gorgeous place – twin steel rails, salty clay and a stillness. The XR6 Turbo burble resonates against the rock face across the road.

Norseman. I used to tell Greyhound passengers it wasn’t the end of the earth (Tammy Fraser bestowed that honour upon Meekatharra) but if they stood on the roof of the coach, they’d see it (the end of the earth!) from there. Exit east.

Up in the Fraser Ranges, I have to play Dire Straits. It’s all about the circle of life. Years ago, around 5.00am, up around those same sweeping bends, with passengers asleep, I threw on the Walkman and that glorious silver guitar album flowed into my ears. Walkmans are now long gone, replaced by a far thinner machine that doesn’t play just one cassette – it has thousands of albums. An entire CD collection in something not much bigger than a business card.

Balladonia. No need to stop, but the circle keeps spinning. In the early 70s, a bunch of us on motorbikes pulled in to camp for the night. The publican didn’t want bike riders in his pub – he was happy to sell us beer, but we had to drink it off his premises. A touch annoyed, we lobbed a rock or two through the neon sign out on the road. Years later, the same bloke had become a good mate – we even shared a 1927 Bentley together, yelling obscenities at motorists as we passed them on the M1 in England, at 100mph. Hell, the circle’s even tighter than that – Maurice owned the car by then, but it came from the collection of another dear friend – well, her husband.

The 90 Mile Straight comes to a sweeping end. Caiguna. Fuel is $1.80c per litre!! But the publican’s a good bloke, even gives me the low down on where the constabulary might be at that particular hour – not that I need to know of course, I’ve already taken a speedometer shot – under the prerequisite controlled conditions!

Madura. Ahh, I remember the woman who ran the place years ago, we used to call her Vinegar Tits, such was her charm and manner. But it’s a beautiful spot, which photos somehow do not do justice to. And yes, in case you’re thinking, “That’s an Indian name,” you’re right. They decided some time in the late 1880s, that it would be a great place to breed horses, bringing breeding stock from the British Army in India. With no wharves or jetties, they swam the horses from the ship to shore. Bad move. If they’d talked to the Aboriginal people, they would have told them about the sharks. Slaughter.

Speaking of which, Mundrabilla Station hove into view, (well, sort of, darkness was quickly falling). The brothers Kennedy took up the lease in the mid 1880s. Genteel farming folk, they had a novel way of dealing with the local vermin. They poisoned the flour and took to shooting an Aboriginal every couple of months and hanging the body from a tree on the plain, known to this day as the Hanging Tree. The Aboriginal people eventually took a terrible revenge, but that’s another story. Sorry? Jesus wept!

I’d covered 1,239kilometres after leaving Dowerin. Time to stop.

Every bar across the Nullarbor has one – a toothless, bearded, knarled cove, incapable of coherent speech, but wanting to be involved / noticed. I turn to the others in the bar,”Where are you from?”
“Toodyay.”
Yeah” I know it well. What do you do there?”
“Work part time for Barrett Displays, a Perth company, we put up stuff at shows like the Dowerin Field Days.”
Hmm! There’s no escape from work. Think I’ll go to bed. They were nice people though.

Saturday 2 February

Not a good place to grab sleep, it’s a major changeover stop for east / west truckies. I must be getting older, the sound of diesel engines firing up is no longer comforting and the light shining through the threadbare curtain fooled me all night long – I kept thinking it was daytime. But no, it was 2.00am, 3.30am, 4.20am. I gave up and got up, saving my treat for after the shower and after I’d flushed a very large, very black spider off the shower curtain and down into the depths of wherever the grey water goes.

I have learnt over the years, ALWAYS take good coffee and a plunger on a trip. Dame Zara Holt never convinced me about Maxwell House! On the road again, but the white, white dunes of Eucla are not to be seen this morning, a misty salt water laden haze is everywhere.

Struth! The Next G phone lights up! In fact there’s coverage for about 30ks either side of Eucla. There’s a message! Could it be some gorgeous lady who has decided she’s missing me / we have a future? No, it’s my son; he wants $150.00 to see the Police tonight! Hang on, there are two messages! Ahh, Anthony, wishing me well on the journey.

Up the Eucla pass, I wonder if Harvey Gurney is still around, with his amazing collection of meteorites. We discovered, in my Greyhound days, that we had a connection. My uncle was “The Super” in Ion Idress’s book, “Across the Nullarbor.” They had called into the Gurney Homestead. Reading that book as a young boy in NZ was really the catalyst for my need to be in Oz.

I’ve hitched across the Nullarbor (when it was dirt), motorcycled across, trucked, trained – hell, I even rode a flat car behind the Gough Whitlam locomotive one starry, starry night – coached and car’d – is that a word?

Refuelled at Border Village, the Bight looms large on the right. In my Skinny Dog days, (on the 24 hour shift break), we would sit out on the cliffs with mellowing herbal-type cigarettes and cheap wine, watching the whales and philosophising. Dylan springs to mind. I know! “Desolation Row.” Christ, it’s so damn good that song.

By Nullarbor Roadhouse, I’m in full voice (and full throttle) with all the windows down, “Like a Rolling Stone,” Of course, it segues into “Something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you Mr Jones?” The cliffs snake alongside me. I think of Thelma and Louise, “Hell girls, turn around and live, I’ll show you how to kick ass and win”

Funny thing, it occurs that the last Speed Limit advisory sign I’ve seen, was at the border of WA and SA. Finally, just after Nundroo, one looms into view (110). I glance at the trip meter, 329kms since the previous sign! Back home in the Nanny State, they’d have apoplexy. I look at my carefully prepared schedule (by me). I’m due to stay in Ceduna tonight. Bugger! Ceduna’s just 30ks away and it’s only 11.00am (Perth time). Got that wrong! Ahh well, I won’t have King George Whiting for dinner, dunno where I’ll be. More fuel and it’s time to boogie.

I never get over how dead and parched this area of South Oz always looks to me. I simply cannot get my head around the fact that it is grain country, they must make a living, but I could not live here. I try putting my photographic artist’s hat on, but nothing appeals … well, there was a twisted wreck of a tangled tree, but I was gone before I could stop.

York number plates on a tray top truck? What’s that doing here? What’s he carting? Ahh!, horses! I’m tempted to pull him up and ask what he’s doing, but reach the conclusion it’s something to do with rodeo, or mustering, it’s not racing. Can’t tell you how I know, but I do.

The sky is black. Very black. Razor thin blades of lightening shoot out of the darkness. Hmm, now we’ll see how the XR6 handles, weighed down with a boot and cabin full of gear. The torrent comes in hard. Full speed on the wipers and back off the throttle, down to about 95k/ph around Iron Knob. The road is starting to flood, even the truckies are talking about it on the CB.

The city limits of Port Augusta appear in front of me. That’ll do for the night, I’ve covered 2,259kms since Friday morning and there wasn’t much in the way of sleep last night. Another funny thing, not one police car, not one speed camera, across two states and 2,200+ kilometres. That must be going to change. It’s pot luck picking a roadside motel, however I’ve scored. The Comfort Inn is clean, comfortable, quiet and has a restaurant serving basic but very fresh food. You guessed it – King George Whiting, I couldn’t resist and snuck-in a Vasse Felix Sauvignon Blanc. Tomorrow it’s Broken Hill. I may stay there a night. Many years ago, I took some of the Brushman of The Bush up to the Pinnacles and around, but that’s another story.

Sunday 3 February

Sunday morning and the motel car park is virtually deserted – just my car and the cleaning ladies, looking relieved that I’m leaving as well. More rain, as the Flinders Ranges loom in front of me. Some 20ks south of Port Augusta, I turn left, heading for Horrocks Pass. The last time I travelled this road, was way back in 1984, when I drove a coach chassis from Sydney to Perth. It’s a lot more comfortable in the cocooned, climate controlled XR6 armchair.

On the other side of the ranges, the lady serving at the Wilmington Café tells me (after ten minutes), that there’s no hurry, she’ll make my smoothie shortly. I smile, it’s just the way it is in the country, no matter what state you’re in … and mine’s relaxed, I’m way ahead of schedule.

80ks later, I see the first police since leaving Dowerin, there’s two of them, having a chat beside their vehicles in the main street of Peterborough. The car does get their attention, but road train after road train rumble through – they have bigger fish to fry.

Inland South Oz still worries me. Peterborough is a perfect example. There are some truly beautiful old buildings – stores, homes etc, in the town, mouth watering really. But the town is somehow old, tired, dilapidated. I’ve never seen the same look / feel in the West, even in ghost towns. This is something different, almost as if hope has been dashed. That magnificent “Carnivale” series springs to mind.

The feeling sticks right through onto the Barrier Highway, as I forge east for New South Wales and the fabled city of Broken Hill. Even the power poles tell a story. In South Oz, they’re distinctively Victorian, with their Christian Cross look. The minute I cross the border, the power poles morph into something all together different. Damned if I know what to make of it.

The road gets wider and starts climbing the small range west of The Hill. Traffic lights, bustle, even on a Sunday. I’m gonna play tourist, but not to the mines, it’s art I want to see. And it’s everywhere. The local tourist bureau has a superb book about Broken Hill artists. I buy it, but unfortunately, 80% of the galleries are closed on a Sunday! Go figure!

Be that as it may, there is gold in them thar hills! The 2007 Archibald entrants are on display at the Broken Hill Gallery. I buy the book and start examining them all. The winning prize doesn’t do it for me. Some of the paintings are exquisite works of photo realism – I have to get within inches of a couple of them to tell! My votes? Danell Bergstrom’s painting of Jack Thompson, but then I like Thompson – forgive me for what may be an overinflated ego – he reminds me of me. Bill Leak’s Portrait of Paul – very powerful, Michael Mucci’s portrait of Peter Garrett and Evert Ploeg’s portrait of George Ellis.

Alas, the Brushman of The Bush are all fading, although Jack Absalom’s still cooking, but off on his annual break. Hughie Schulz has passed on, to that naïve wilderness in the sky, and Pro Hart’s gone to investigate the availability of Rollers in painters heaven. I talk to a gorgeous, gorgeous lady at Pro Hart’s gallery. Wafer thin, but elegant, possibly in her eighties. Mary McGuire, once of the ABC, she lived next door to Hugh and Beth. She gives me a very personal tour of the gallery. I will write to her. I’m looking at the pipe organs on display, when some people walk in. A silver haired chap pulls out all the stops and Bach powers through the gallery. It’s quite surreal.

I like Pro Hart’s work. It’s comfortably familiar, sort of very Australian, but I’d never quite got around to buying anything. And there it was. One of his prints, not the usual kaleidoscope of riotous Pro Hart colour, but a muted blue Brolga catching a frog. Number 94 of 100, I had to have it.

Outside, his cars sit silently waiting – forever now. The Roller is one hell of a painted lady. Bloody wonderful. I can only think of one other – John Lennon’s psychedelic yellow canvas. Here’s to anyone having the balls to make it happen. The beautiful Bentley sits untouched, in the shadows now. There’s a sculpture park across the road from his studio. I like the faces. Perhaps it’s the theatre of the man and his work that deeply appeals to me.

I’m so immersed in thought about all the art, that I drive out of town forgetting to refuel! Me, who never misses anything with cars. I laugh and turn around. In case you’re wondering, the car’s giving about 11 litres per 100 kilometres – just under 30mpg, there’s a 610k range to the tank, about 56ks less than the non-turbo Falcon on a similar long run. On the road again, the rain comes in and the clouds roll out as far as I can see into the distant east. It’s going to be a wet drive. The low profile tyres aquaplane on pools of water, a little more than I would like, but it’s very controllable.

Back to that South Oz thing. Here I am in outback New South Wales, it’s barren yes, but it feels fine. Ancient, but alive. Is it something to do with South Oz being the driest state? Stephen Donaldson’s “Trials of Thomas Covenant” come to mind, it’s as if Lord Foul’s Bane has descended on South Australia. Whatever, NSW feels good. Power on. Now there’s a thing. Everyone travels at 120kmph. Yep, they all back off for towns etc, but out on the open road, 120 rules the road. It makes sense. You make a mile, boring tiredness doesn’t set in. It should be the open road limit everywhere, with an allowance for passing manoeuvres. And still not a police car in sight.

259ks later, I’m pulling into Wilcannia. The countryside has obviously had a lot of rain, everything is green and it’s still raining. If I can find a half way decent motel, I’ll stop for the night. The Shell Roadhouse also has “Graham’s Motel” out the back. It’ll do. “Ya eat here at the roadhouse mate, but we close ‘er at 7.00pm.” No worries, I want to watch the ABC news anyhow. I wonder if he was Graham?

I’m the last one left in the dining room. The waitress – I simply cannot write “waitperson,” has placed all the surrounding chairs on the tables, “Would you like me to take my meal to my room?”
“Na, no worries love, me mum’s making a roast tonight and I can’t bloody wait. She burns everything else, but gets them right.” I smile and keep masticating.

So here I am, Miss Marples sleuthing away on the television, as I type. Seedy. That best describes the motel. I think a Shiraz might fix my point of view.

Monday 4 February

Wet, wet, wet. And that’s just the humidity (around 95%). Leaving Wilcannia, I see the Darling River is swirling with mud red water flowing swiftly under the bridge, the Darling lives again. A group of young Aboriginal boys give the car the thumbs up with wide, appreciative grins. Next stop Cobar, 259ks away.

The Barrier Highway stretches into the cloudy distance, visibility is that tiring, glaring silver. I prefer the sunshield down, blocking out as much of the glare as possible. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen any roo carcasses, since way back the other side of Ceduna, (I eventually do, just outside of Gunnedah). It’s quite different to West Oz, where rain will bring roos out in broad daylight, to the edges of the bitumen, lapping at the pools of water on the road.

I’m just starting to realise I haven’t really seen any stock, when we start climbing up into the MacCulloch Ranges and suddenly goats galore appear on every side, for miles. This is a road for cars to travel by daylight only! The odd sheep or two come into view, but not many. I can only assume either the pastoralist is running goats, or he’s lost his gun licence.

It might be wet, but the scenery is lovely, there are trees everywhere and it reminds me of those areas of the Kimberley, where rivers run, different trees of course, but that same lush green of cascading foliage. Cattle start to appear. I’m glad, I am at heart a cattle man, always loved working with them.

Cobar. The rain breaks just as I enter the town. I like the speed warning system in NSW – signs reading “50km zone ahead” – it works well and there can be no excuse for thundering through any town. It’s a busy, pretty little place, which sort of belies its mining background, although they’ve made quite a statement with the town name emblazoned on the eastern end of town.

The XR6 settles back into her rhythm for the run to Nyngan, when I am startled to read a large roadside sign, declaring I am entering The Bogan Shire! I think it’s serious, but I’d either keep it quiet, or change the slogan. Ahh well, I suppose it’ll be easy to pick a local – duck tail and singing “Achy Breaky Heart.” About 50ks east of the town, I find I’m entering familiar territory – Wheatbelt country. Sure enough, as I hit the outskirts of town, an AWB sign greets me – bet that company doesn’t have much life left, the Rudd government will surely be looking for scalps.

I pass a local express coach and it hits me. It’s the first I’ve seen in four days. Yes, there’s been the odd tour bus, but no express coaches and certainly no buses or coaches on the Nullarbor. Maybe they took them off the road at the same time as the police cars? I remember in my Greyhound Days, during holiday periods, there’d be 20 or 30 coaches a day on the Eyre Highway, let alone major state roads like this. I wonder where old express coaches go to die? I wouldn’t mind picking up one of the Skinny Dog’s American Silver Eagles, those mothers could step out and were very stable, they handled. Make a great motor home. And a partner could drive one with ease – they had Allison automatics.

The Barrier Highway finishes at Nyngan – if I’d turned left, I’d have been at Bourke in 70ks, but I wasn’t going that way. Nyngan reminds me of Huntley in New Zealand, minus the mighty Waikato of course, but a very similar feel and look. Speaking of feeling, most of the road to Nevertire, is a bloody disgrace. That there aren’t dead people from one end to the other is a tribute to the skill of the truckies, who have to keep their rigs on a straight path, in what is effectively a sunken bitumen goat track. Perhaps while the new Federal Minister for Agriculture is touring round, he might check the road out and have words in ears.

An older green Toyota Hilux comes towards me. Wyndham plates! Damn, he’s a long way from home and I don’t envy him what must be a kidney jolting ride. Two emus, as mad as they always are, dart back and forth across the road, necks twisted behind them. They are the most unpredictable animal of all when it comes to safely driving past them. If the bastards could open a door and get in with you, I reckon they would. With those wild mad eyes, I’ve often wondered whether a good dose of Thyroxine would settle them down. You still couldn’t eat them of course. Now that would be road kill to try the Top Gear team out!

The rain is still thundering down. The office rings. I’ve had Next G phone contact (with the high gain boot-mounted aerial) basically all the way from Ceduna, a couple of fade spots, but pretty good. The GSM phone only works in the larger towns, (just like back home in WA). I have to stop talking for a while, the road is awash with water, anymore than 80km/h is downright dangerous. The windscreen wipers are barely coping. It’s worth a photo. As I cruise into Tamworth, good mate Neville Wittey rings (Nifty Nev, The Beautiful Banker and I are going sailing on Sydney Harbour after Bathurst), “Be careful mate,” he warns, “It’s prone to flash floods up there, we want you alive and well.” He ain’t wrong … on both counts. Then I see a sign – it’s the guiltiest looking Koala I’ve ever seen in my life, so I photograph it – if you look closely, even the spider’s nervous!

Now when you’re in Tamworth, there’s one thing you simply have to do, go see the Golden Guitar. So I do. And in time honoured GR fashion, the only place to set up the obligatory shot, is in a non parking zone. Hughie’s watching, the clouds part and the sun comes out … briefly. I enter the hallowed halls of the Golden Guitar Tourism shop. Mate!!

I don’t know what to buy – a pink Stetson? A C&W CD – there’s thousands of those, a Tamworth tea towel? A Tamworth ruler, pencil sharpener, glasses, pictures, mouse mats? Then I see it! My God, it’s magnificent. So tasteless, so awful, so kitsch it is simply wonderful. A Golden Guitar snow dome. This could be the best $4.50 I’ve ever paid out in my life. The lovely lady behind the counter assures me the price includes a very safe styrene box. Bugger Broken Hill, this IS a work of art!

More miracles. On the road again, it’s 4.35pm, 42kms north of Tamworth, I’ve just finished reassuring Mr Michael Whyte, Brand Ambassador at Vasse Felix that I do have sufficient of their product on board to meet all possible emergencies, when the first Police car I’ve actually seen on the road passes me. I glance at the trip meter, I’ve covered 3,728kms to finally find the thin-on the ground blue line.

Now you may be wondering why, if I’m heading to Warwick as my first major stop, that I came via Tamworth. Simple, the place is an Oz icon and it will lead me in the morning to another – Tenterfield. I’ll saddle-up in the morning, ride out of Armidale and tell you more tomorrow night.

Tuesday 5 February

67 years to the day that “Banjo” Patterson stepped off the perch. It seems appropriate therefore, that I’m planning on visiting Tenterfield this morning, it’s often referred to as the “Birth Place Of Our Nation” – Henry Parkes made his famous Federation speech there in 1899.

The phone rings. It’s Brad, Eoin Cameron’s producer, the West’s breakfast radio king wants to have a chat about the trip and the car – he’s a mate and having seen the snow dome pic, like me, is in awe of it’s sheer beauty and elegance – he must know more. He introduces me as a rev head. I smile to myself, he’s right of course. It’s interestingly therapeutic to talk with a friend from home, when you’re thousands of kilometres away. Sort of reassuring that your own world still exists, although you’re not there … if that makes sense.

Car repacked, I hit the road for the next town north, Glen Innes, quietly pleased that it’s a relatively short distance to drive today (312ks to Warwick), as within a few minutes of getting behind the wheel, I realise I am tired. The past few long, heavy days have extracted a toll and I suspect the concentration levels in the constant downpour yesterday are a factor. The speed limit of 100kmh will do me just fine today, in fact I opt for cruise control, a rarity for me.

Glen Innes is just 100ks up the road from Armidale, but I feel I’ve moved to the Highlands of Scotland … sort of. There’s a strange mix / emphasis on the Celtic – not that I object, I just have trouble reconciling Stonehenge replicas, with images of Scottish pipers – I’ve been to Stonehenge and the real Highlands. I did not find a Skull and Crossbones anywhere around Stonehenge, although admittedly, it’s not all that far (geographically) from Cornwall – if pirates spring to mind. No matter, the town is very friendly. A lady in the local optometrist tells me it hasn’t rained for 15 years! They are loving the wet! I’m on her side.

And she on mine. After asking me where I’m from and where I’m headed, she tells me, “Careful, the boys are out on the road today!” Good advice, gratefully received, but I am tired and will push no boundaries today. And to Steve (my brother … and my cousins Hope and Naomi) I know you’ll be smiling at good vibes re Glen Innes – my parents bought into the the new Auckland housing estate in 1955, we spent four or five years there, before moving to the North Shore, when the “Coat Hanger” went up.

Bloody Hell! She was right! At Dundee, 39ks north of Glen Innes, a pursuit car approaches me, radar mounted on the side window, just like the wild west! At last, 3,942kms after I left Dowerin, there is a real police presence on the road. Mind you, they’re very anal retentive in NSW about speed cameras, there are signs everywhere warning about loss of licence, heavy fines, Armageddon, etc, etc. Nonsense. One police car on the road does more for good behaviour and etiquette, than half a million dollars spent on warning signs.

Ten minutes later, at Deepwater, I see a “Double Bubble” (red and blue lights on the roof) in front of me. I knew he was there, as truckies had warned on the CB radio, that he was on the prowl. I slowly reel him in. Obviously he’s not using cruise control. A short while later, half way down the Bolivia Hills, he pulls into a Rest Area. I see no need to alert anyone to his presence.

Tenterfield. I talked of this town with Eoin. Who, who’s true-blue, doesn’t know some of the lines from “Tenterfield Saddler.” I’d assured him I would have it playing on the iPod, as I drive in …” Time is a traveller …” I stop to photograph the town’s welcoming statement, referring to Henry Parkes. As I get out of the car, cicadas sing in my ear. Eerily reminiscent of boyhood days playing in the Auckland bush.

It’s cattle country, granite outcrops, steep, steep hills and very reminiscent of Toodyay in the west. Just north of the town, I find an old, dilapidated railway bridge, crossing the Tenterfield Creek, which is swelling by the minute. Like the saddler (and his grandson), the steam engines are long gone. But I spy a remnant – a sign, declaring the area is for the use of Travelling Stock. Drovers, now that evokes a wonderful mental image.

60ks later, I’m in Queensland. The weather’s been kind so far today, but the rain starts again. Another 60ks and I’m in Warwick, which is to be the start of my real working journey.

I ring Bill Campbell, manager of Morgan Park Raceway, the inspiration for the Wheatbelt Motorplex, he’s cannot see me until tomorrow, but is pleased I’m in town and wants to catch up. I call into the Morgan Park Performance Centre. Good people, they’d given us excellent advice, (from a business perspective), in September last year. I decide to give them the XR6 for it’s long overdue service tomorrow morning. I’ve got to support the little guy in the country town and he’s wrapped to get the business.

I have my first print media interview, with the Warwick Daily News – they interviewed me and Dale Metcalf (our Shire President), when we visited in September last year. I then go down to photograph the Condamine River, which is on the rise, not far from flooding for the second time this year! “Send her down Hughie,” everyone agrees.

There are names that simply roll off the tongue, if Oz is in your blood – The Darling, Broken Hill, Broome, Kalgoorlie, the Kimberley, Tenterfield, Tamworth, the Condamine. Being in all these places, is truly a sense of place. I feel I belong – I’m paying homage.

I book into a motel I’d spotted under construction last year – The Coachman’s Inn. When I get into the room, I notice the clock is showing the incorrect time. I’ll fix it later. At that point in time, I was stuffed – not quite in the manner of a John Cleese parrot, but sorely in need of rest. I make the obligatory phone calls to the office, then lie down on the bed, having booked a table at the restaurant for 7.30pm. My natural alarm clock wakes me at 6.00pm. I turn on the television, to catch the news. No news? I turn to WIN TV – the antiques programme? My brain flounders, then I work it out. Of course, there’s no daylight saving in Queensland, I’m actually an hour ahead of them – which is not bad for a Sandgroper! In reality, Queensland is only an hour ahead of WA.

The restaurant is called ” Ruperts.” It shouldn’t be here! I’ve got a couple of favourite restaurants in the West – Bradleys in East Perth, Vasse Felix, Cape Lodge and Vat 107 in Margaret River, The Rivers Edge Café in Northam and Jackson’s in Highgate. I have just discovered another in Warwick!! Very Jacksons / Bradleys in ambience and décor. The food is exquisite. I’m wonderfully dumfounded. They even had music by the German composer, Edgar Froesse, who I took to the Pinnacles many, many years ago. The Moroccan Barramundi was magnificent and the Cinnamon Pear in Pastry was to die for, all while watching road trains thunder by outside the window (you can’t hear them). Surreal, wonderful! My only complaint? A great wine list, including a couple of Margaret River wines, but NO Vasse Felix! Michael, my dear friend, their wholesaler is Brisbane based – you simply must call them and fix the problem!

Tomorrow? Well, I meet with Bill and the Warwick Shire – we’re going to set up a Sister City / town relationship with Dowerin – both places are 165km inland from their respective state capitals – the car should be serviced by midday and then I’ll head for Brisbane, in what the weather boys says will be nightmare driving conditions, down through The Gap etc.

But now, it’s been 4,150kms from Dowerin to Warwick and just for once, this bundle of energy needs rest. See you tomorrow.

Wednesday 6 February

Morning and straight down to work, making and checking appointments over the next couple of weeks. Then get the Turbo over to Matt Clift at Morgan Park Performance Centre for its overdue service. He obligingly drops me off at Morgan Park, where there is a scheduled practice day. A good chance to talk with people who are happy to drive 160 clicks or more to hire a race track. Not long after that, I find myself in the passenger seat of a much older hoon than me, as he throws his souped-up Rodeo … diesel!! … ute around the track, evading the odd startled roo or two. It’s a great life really. And just in case you’re laughing at the diesel concept, Audi have been so successful at Le Mans with diesels, the powers-that-be are probably going to ban them.

I’m doing serious busy work, photographing and measuring buildings etc, when a very smart combination pulls up – a hot looking XR6 Turbo ute, towing a sweet looking yellow open wheeler – it looks a little like the Lola’s of old. The guy who owns it has come up from Sydney for a couple of days to learn about the car. He’s just bought it, from Grant Watson of Pro-Sport Developments (who’s also there to instruct) having traded up from his MX5. I think about asking him to pose with the car, when a pair of legs articulate past me. Emily is eminently happy to pose with the car – I still have no idea what make of vehicle it is … I lost my train of thought. Back to business Gregory!

A couple of phone calls confirm for me that some of the people I want to meet in Brisbane, have already left for Bathurst. As I drive down through a mist laden Cunningham’s Gap, I hear on the radio, that Brisbane is in need of two hundred – that’s right, two hundred buses immediately, just to cope with the numbers of passengers. Queensland, like WA, is pumping. There’s no real point in trying to entice people away to the Wheatbelt from the Banana State, like us, they can’t find enough workers. I know some are doing it tough, but it really is an incredible resource-driven period in our history.

I decide the best thing to do, is cut back down to NSW and start the WA spruik from there, which means cutting through Beaudesert and Nerang to the Gold Coast and across the border. I simply have to stop for a brief minute on Mt Tambourine, many years ago, riding with a bunch of fellow bikers, we camped up here for a weekend – I had the then first four stroke 750cc Suzuki and she handled! I remember we sat around the campfire listening to the new Manfred Mann album and the song, “Blinded By the Light.” Hell, I’ve gotta play it. And so I found myself, almost four decades later, thundering down the mountain, …”Wrapped up like a deuce …” How sweet it is.

There’s water everywhere! Rivers running across bridges, unreal. I’m now into my fifth day of rain and I’ve only been on the road for six days. Back down on the flat, through Nerang and into the God Coast, I ponder the peculiar fact that I’m not enjoying myself and finding both work and driving a chore. Something’s wrong. It doesn’t feel like a flu, but spark has gone walkabout. Maybe it’s the slow speeds? But I’ve just spent half a morning on a race track. Work continues. A phone call or two later and we’ve set up for Warwick and Dowerin to establish a sister city / town relationship. Warwick’s been very clever and has applied to officially be known as the Horsepower Capital of Australia, it’s a good call, they have both Morgan Park Raceway and their horse shows and rodeos.

Back in New South Wales, the Pacific Highway opens up, although there’s still the omnipresent radar warning signs and huge billboard posters every twenty ks or so, depicting a woman with a wry sneer on her face and her fingers held just so, indicating a very small fish and words to the effect that speeding doesn’t impress her. The silly bastards don’t get it. Men don’t speed to impress women, or anyone else, in much the same way women don’t dress to impress men – they do it for themselves, or to impress other women. But hey, who am I to try and explain the psychology of it all to those in authority, after all, they’re the experts.

The feeling of lethargy is overwhelming and I know I have to stop. At the same time, I realise the clock has gone forward an hour, now I’m south of the border. I decide to head off for Byron Bay, 10ks off the Highway. It’s packed, with the younger set – died blond surfie hair, suntanned breasts and navels as far as the eye can see, against the dark grey, rain-sodden sky. I think about stopping, but I’d look like Uncle Pervy amongst all the young things, it would be too uncomfortable, besides, the joint looks like Margaret River or Dunsborough during Schoolies Week. I motor back out to the Pacific Highway and head south.

30ks down the road, the sign says Ballina. That’ll do, so I head to the coast
and book into a motel. Still struggling with tiredness, I put off the computer work I need to do, deciding to have a shower, then grab a bite at the restaurant, in the hope that maybe an early night will do the trick. Zipping open the toiletry bag, everything becomes abundantly clear – out falls the daily medication. A few years back, I had a minor altercation with Thyroid cancer and ever since then, I’ve needed a daily fix of Thyroxin. How stupid! I wrote about it the other day, (something about emus) and it still didn’t ring a bell. Problem solved, no wonder I’m run down, I haven’t got a metabolism. I OD on an extra couple of the little helpers – better to look like a live emu than a dead one.

Thursday 7 February

Not only is the sun shining for the first time since I left Nullarbor Roadhouse, I am feeling positively dangerous! Like Freddy, I’m back! Dashing off emails to my chairman, media outlets, and the office, there’s no stopping me. Next thing I know, in between a thousand phone calls, it’s 10.00am, the motel wants to chuck me out. Fair enough. I pop up to the beach for a quick squiz. Gorgeous, good for the soul. Time to boogie – I’m headed for Bathurst, but probably won’t get there today.

It’s a beautiful run down the Pacific Highway. A couple of times, I have an incredible sense of Déjà vu – around the Bundjalung Forest area, it’s exactly the same as driving along the coast road towards Bunbury, or the last thirty ks into Margaret River. Of course, the sugar and banana plantations bring you back to reality. But it’s also very similar to much of the North Island of New Zealand, particularly from Auckland up to the Bay of Islands. And not just in terms of the scenery. It’s bloody slow going, just like in NZ. There are road works every ten ks or so – stop and crawl. A town every ten ks … stop and crawl. You just can’t make a mile. However there is a bit of light relief, a lady holding the Stop / Go lollypop has fitted a stubby holder to the poll and keeps her water bottle there – wasted talent. The 100k speed limit is as boring as bat shit. At one stage I thought, I’d open up a bit, then thought better of it. Next thing I know, a gold Falcon (obviously a rep), shot past me. I thought, “Hmm, dunno.” Ten ks later, there he was, exchanging pleasantries with Plod in an unmarked white Falcon. Always go with the gut, it never fails.

I’d planned on driving down to Maitland (just north of Newcastle), then across to Bathurst, but I really can’t be bothered with the snails pace of the so called highway any longer, it’s driving me mad. So I take a quick look at the Gregory’s. Ahh! It looks like I can turn off at a place called Urunga and cut across something called the Waterfall Way, over to Armidale and down to Bathurst from there. I figured it couldn’t be any worse than the village-hopping mail run I was stuck with. Exit stage right.

Right? Maate!!! What a find! What a treasure! What a beautiful, beautiful road! And what a driver’s road, car or bike, it doesn’t matter. Let me tell you about it. The banana plantations quickly cease and suddenly the road gets tight and curvy. I’m still down on the plain, but there’s a veritable mountain ahead, as well as a police car. Oh well. A tight right hander comes up, easy. But the small blue Korean car coming towards us has no proper line into the corner, no idea really and veers wide into the path of the police car. Wrong move at the wrong time. I briefly glance at the driver and I’m instantly sure she would never speed and probably has a clean licence. BUT she has no idea of car control, or how to drive.

I’m already braking, as I know the constable is going to do a U-turn. Sure enough. Now for the hill climb. How sweet it is! And the scenery! To die for. Three quarters of the way up, there is a gorgeous waterfall splashing down the granite face, (Newell Falls). I’m talking to Jodie (one of my daughters) on the phone and tell her what I’ve stopped to see and that she’ll have the pics on her computer in the morning). You can even see way down to the ocean. It’s stunningly beautiful, the sun is streaming down and the world is good!

As I drive further up, looking across to the other side of the steep, steep valley, there are white waterfall ribbons dotted here and there and the granite cliff face on my left is weeping water everywhere. So fresh, clean and alive.

Up on the tablelands I find the road gets even better. The XR6 Turbo was built for this. I’m in heaven, somewhere to play, Dorrigo passes by, then Ebor. Whoa! What’s that? Guy Fawkes River? This I’ve got to see. Metres away there’s a beautiful thundering waterfall – in mid February! Other sightseers and I all agree, the lush greenness of everything and the abundant water exudes good karma. But I have to get back to “my precious” – the road.

Somewhere just south of Armidale, I pull into a Caltex servo to fill up. I’m looking for a Premium pump but can’t see one at first. Then I see what looks to be Premium. I take the pump off the hook, but notice it’s cheaper than standard. A closer look reveals it’s an ethanol mix – not good for the turbo engine. I put the nozzle back and pick up the other one. However the attendant doesn’t seem to want to turn it on. Perhaps he wants to talk about. I don’t, so I drive off for the next servo. Why waste time? I’ve struck this before, having to wait while somebody flicks a switch – if they notice you.

The BP down the road gets the nod, I can tell which is the Premium pump. I do a quick calculation, 560.7ks and 57.95 litres – that’s about 27mpg – apologies to the metric lovers – it doesn’t make sense to me until it’s in miles per gallon. I can’t knock that sort of consumption – the car’s loaded with luggage and we have been playing.

It’s late arvo and I’ve still got an interview to do in Tamworth. It appears I’m going to be held up by a coach, but no worries, they obviously got their vehicles mixed up, when they put the 100kmh limited sticker on the rear of this sucker. Next thing I know, it’s almost 6.00pm. To heck with it, I’ll bed down in Snow Dome territory for the night. Bathurst beckons – I’ve been in training.

Friday 8 February

So there I was, Friday morning in Tamworth and just like an old western, I was about to lit-outta town. The bloke running the Best Western motel had been very obliging the previous night – a hose to wash the car (they’ve only been allowed to wash with a bucket for months!) and he kept pouring me glasses of wine at the bar – they didn’t appear on the bill either! He hadn’t finished playing host-extraordinaire either. As I handed in the room key, he said “Which way ya going, the long way or the short way?”
“Keep talking,” I replied
“Got a map?”
“Yep.” He took a pink marker and drew a line from Tamworth through Werris Creek, Coolah, Mudgee and Ilford to Bathurst. “Cuts out an hour or two, there’s no traffic, it’s all sealed roads and a bloke can make a mile.”

He was right, most of the trip, till just south of Mudgee, was on flat plains country, which had obviously had a lot of water in recent times. In fact just after Werris Creek, there were several rivers crossing the road, ah well, I was driving a Ford. He was right about the lack of traffic, after the Werris Creek turn-off, it dropped down to a car every couple of ks or so and they were all travelling at a steady 120kph. As he said, you could make a mile.

The little hamlet of Coolah got my attention, with its bold entry statement -“Home of the Original Black Stump,” one of my favourite expressions. I had to stop, besides, I was looking for a post office. Luck was with me, the town had a post office and they had Black Stump stickers for sale. There was a small crowd around the car, as there usually is, one of them said, “Motorsport? It’s my passion. Where’s Dowerin and how do you pronounce it?”

Barry (Wells) is retired, in his early 70s and still rides his motorbike touring around the joint, in fact he’s going back to WA on the bike with a bunch of friends next year. We stood and chatted about Bathurst – he used to pit crew for a Maserati team. I had to give him a copy of “Dowerin Daredevils and a cap, he was wrapped.

This region’s obviously low on the NSW government’s radar – the weeds and grass are actually growing through the bitumen road and often the white lines on either side of the road are completely covered with vegetation. Then I cross the Golden Highway (between Dunedoo and Leadville), to find a large sign declaring it was the Mid Western District and illegal to take grapevine cuttings past that point. No problems there, to make life easier for me, Vasse Felix had very kindly worked alchemy on the cuttings and put them in bottles, of which I had plenty!

The Next G mobile cut out (as I’ve said previously, the GSM only works in larger towns), but out here, Next G wasn’t much better, high gain aerial or not, however the road has improved dramatically – obviously someone influential lives around here. Naughty thoughts of course, but it’s interesting to note that for about 10ks either side of a quite lovely farm and home, the road is perfect – just like the farmhouse really, then it becomes second rate again. But hey, maybe I’m just a cynical old bastard. At Mudgee, I realise it’s the first time I’ve seen an Elders branch, since leaving the west. It’s a large town and kids at the local high school give the car a big wave -“Hmm, how’d you like to convince your family to move to the West?”, I think. Must found out what the employment and economic situation is around this district.

The road starts heading towards hill country and I find myself driving alongside a large dam / catchment that’s obviously low, but definitely has water, it’s called Lake Windamere. By the time I reach the turn-off at Ilford, there are familiar black clouds closing in. Well, I can’t complain, I’ve had two days of sunshine, however the thought of a wet weekend wandering around Bathurst doesn’t fill me with joy.

The road’s been running alongside the Wollemi National Park for 70ks or so and I’ve been wondering how Wally’s going. As some of you know, a couple of years back, I won a Wollemi pine in a Weekend Australian competition. It was immediately obvious when I unpacked him, that his name was Wally. Wally the Wollemi now lives very happily in a wine barrel on the back patio, chatting to fellow barrel tenants – the herbs and Roma the tomato plant. Hopefully son Gordon and / or Kate (Irvine) are keeping up the liquids to Wally and his mates.

As the car climbs up into steep hill country, I notice a slightly different type of gum tree. I’m just wondering what it is, when I come across a dead Koala on the road, something I haven’t seen since a trip down to Phillip Island in the early 1970s. Bugger. It’s a bit like the atrocious pictures of the slaughtered whale and calf on the Japanese “scientific” ship. Yeah, right.

The last little town I pass though, is Sofala, an old gold mining settlement, nestled at the bottom of a very steep valley. As the road starts to wind down to the town, I see a Corolla sitting at an impossible, insane angle, ten metres off the road. God knows what the driver was doing, or what speed to get the car up there. Three days later, I’m still trying to work it out.

Bathurst! The holy grail of all true blue motorsport enthusiasts.

I drop my gear at the motel and head over to the track to find Ken and Robina, who’re in town as part of a four strong WA HQ racing mob. Ken’s racing Robina’s car this weekend and it’s wearing the Wheatbelt Motorplex logo splashed across its bonnet. Not only that, we’ve done a deal whereby the transporter has the logo across both sides of the pantech.

I find them just as Ken’s about to head out for the first race. It’s almost déjà vu for me, as some of his team work for Barbagallo’s or used to work there, it’s a reunion of battle-hardened souls! One bloke wants to update me on all the gossip. “No! I’ve escaped! It’s all a fading memory. Stop. Desist. Here, have a glass of red!” Only joking of course.

The HQ series is bloody fantastic, it allows people to enter the sport without the horrendous costs – it still ain’t cheap – you use about $3.00 worth of fuel on every lap, but it’s worth it for the enthusiast. And who knows, for a young driver, like go kart racing, the sky’s the limit in this training ground. But for mature drivers, like Ken, it’s all about lifestyle, fun and that wonderful surge of adrenaline, which Ken’s about to get in buckets!

I’m standing on the roof of the pits, taking pics of the cars as the come through The Chase, under the bridge and down into pit straight, when Ken takes a nudge from behind and the car spins out of control. I capture it all, even when Ken gets out of and jumps the fence. Luckily there’s no damage, although Robina needs a fortifying drink.

We decide to meet that night at the motel I’m staying at – The Governor Macquarie, as it appears to have a reasonable restaurant. WRONG! The staff are lovely, but the plastic over the table clothes is disturbing – sort of 1970s Golden Fleece roadhouse. Your arms stick to it! Oh well, we’ve snuck in some of Janet’s finest. Several of the dishes on the menu “… aren’t available tonight, sorry,” which is curious, as the restaurant is busy (all accommodation is booked out in the town).

Ken and Robina order fish. The batter seems to be puffed up surrounding whatever’s inside. My lasagne arrives – wafer thin, dry and crusty – you get that way after several days in the freezer. The chips are edible, the salad is, well, recognisable. We can’t eat, so we drink wine and talk, discussing our accommodation. My unit has no remote for the TV and it won’t work without it – somebody’s obviously tried, as the front panel is broken off, there’s no remote for the air con unit – it’s set at whatever temperature the motel people feel is comfortable for me! It vacillates between pumping out hot and cool air, but at least it’s a split system, not the God-awful wall mounted things that ruin any chance of a quiet night. The bedside radio is very economical – the station change knob is missing, however I discover I can remove the volume knob and use it to change stations. However the water’s hot and the joint is clean.

Ken and Robina have scored really well. They’ve booked what was a converted convent, but had not been able to get a confirming fax / email, although all looks well on the website. When they’d arrived, there was a note on the door to ring a number, if nobody was there. They rung. A lady was a bit put out, as she was busy, could they go and do some shopping or something? No. Eventually she turned up, explaining her husband was in hospital – he’d fallen off his motorbike (as you do apparently – although neither Ken nor I have followed this practice) and she was taking him his lunch.

It turned out the rooms didn’t have en-suites, however there were two communal showers – men to the right of the corridor and women down the other end, off to the left, “Oh, and you better be careful, there’s no doors as such, so people do get it wrong and wander in.” There was no soap or towels provided either and worse, the wash basins had been installed for children – on your knees was apparently the best way to wash you face or brush your teeth. They asked for milk to put in their bar fridge, “Oh, you’re the lucky ones, the other rooms don’t have a fridge. Now your room key also fits the front door, make sure you keep your room locked.” Ken asked if everyone else had the same key (opening the front door etc), “Yes.”

On that note, all of us laughing like drains, retired for the night, to prepare for a weekend of motorsport, little did we know that we hadn’t experienced the last of Bathurst’s Fawlty Towers hospitality.

Saturday 9 & Sunday 10: The WPS Bathurst Motor Festival

Bathurst. To anyone remotely interested in motorsport, the name conjures up an incredible image of adversity, speed, danger and excitement. It’s utterly correct to refer to the track as a Mecca for enthusiasts – one simply must go there once in a lifetime.

Last year, my daughter Jodie and partner Brent drove around the track. She was so astounded at the steepness of the mountain and the insane bends, that she rang both me and her brother, in awe of what the drivers cope with. She of course, grew up force-fed on a televised diet of the annual Great Race.

I drove into town on the first day of the annual WPS Bathurst Motor Festival. The programme of events included parades of street cars and bikes, HQ Holden racing, Formula Vee racing, Salon Car racing and finally, on the Sunday, the Bathurst 12 Hour. Unsure of where my motel was situated, I called into the tourist bureau to enquire and ended up buying the odd souvenir or two – I’m quite sure my soon to be four year old granddaughter will appreciate her Bathurst tee-shirt! And, may I be the first to tell you all, after starting my Snow Dome collection with the Tamworth work of art, when I enquired about a Bathurst snow dome, lo and behold, they told me they were coming, for the first time!! There is a God.

Privately, this trip has turned into an opportunity to pay homage / respect, to some Australian icons – Pro Hart, Norman Lindsay and Bathurst, quite different to my usual pursuit of natural wonders, but just as vital in terms of nourishment for the soul.

I feel I should point out I am not a racer and never will be. I am a very fast, capable long distance driver – the sort of team member you’d put in the car for the middle run of the Bathurst – there won’t be an accident, the car will be nursed and I’ll have increased the lead a touch. I LOVE being at one with a beautiful piece of machinery. There is this ephemeral synergy between driver and the machine, as it literally comes alive, responding to touch, feel and instinct. Perhaps my connection with Norman Lindsay and driving is a little less subliminal than I thought.

I am finding the XR6 Turbo an exquisite piece of machinery – very European. Yes, I would love the sound of a V8, but this car does have a very sexy burble, it handles and goes. Dear God does it go! It’s very predictable and oh so safe when it comes to a passing manoeuvre. It is a little under-braked in terms of the performance available (sub six seconds to 100kmh), but then Falcons have always had useless brakes, you learn to live with the shudder. C’mon Henry, get it right! Bad brakes or not, I think I’ll buy this car off the company when its time is due – it’s a classic and will be worth keeping.

So, I arrive at Mt Panorama, looking at the huge painted sign way up on the mountain side, a beacon for enthusiasts everywhere. There aren’t many people and there isn’t the buzz or atmosphere of a V8 Supercar round. It immediately strikes me that this is a weekend for enthusiasts, not fans – if that makes sense – there are none of the beer swilling, abusive yobos who unfortunately seem attracted to V8 Supercars or AFL. There are competitors and families everywhere and a relaxed, amiable atmosphere, even amongst the 12 Hour teams, although the Alfa Romeo crowd do seem a little pretentious.

Making my way up to the HQ racing teams, I am astounded to see that this entry-level form of racing, now in its 20th year, (there were a lot of HQ taxis pumped out in the 1970s), has attracted in excess of 55 cars, from all over Oz, including four from the West, one of which, Ken Coppin’s car (No 11), well it’s Robina’s really, is sporting the Wheatbelt Motorplex logo. Ken’s about to go out on the track for the first time, for the first HQ race.

The race is on. I’ve photographed the start and now I’m on the edge of the roof, taking photos as the cars stream through the bend of The Chase and down to the final corner leading into Pit Straight. It’s tricky photographing race cars, you have to pick your mark well before you shoot it, following it down, to keep focus. And so the lens picks up Number 11 on the other side of The Chase. All Hell breaks loose, number 11 spins and clouds of dust fly up. I keep shooting. The car spins to a stop on the grass. Ken jumps out and leaps over the fence to safety. He’s fine.

Robina’s nerves are shot to pieces, but I’m smiling with déjà vu – some years back, I was running a track day out at Barbagallo Raceway and Ken lost his Lamborghini, backwards, into the sand trap at the end of pit straight. I’d sent the incriminating photo into Neil Dowling, motoring editor of The Sunday Times – Kens’ never lived it down. When Ken and number 11 arrived back at the pits, I told him I’d caught it all and had to make a phone call. “Who to?” he said. When Neil answered, I passed him over to Ken. An hour later, Neil had the pics. Oh joy of joys! After all, what are friends for?

The track is 6 kilometres long, (to put that in perspective, Barbagallo is 2.5kms) and it is STEEP. They run a bus up and down the mountain – it ain’t free at $5.00 each, but hey, there’s no other way to see it all. I am shocked at how steep and winding it is, as the bus travels alongside the track up to MacPhillamy Park. Then when I walk down to The Esses, like my daughter, I am in absolute awe of any driver flinging a car down through it all at any more than 65-70kms and hour. It’s not only insane, considering the speed V8 Supercars travel at, it is impossible.

Then there’s Conrod Straight. The drop is phenomenal. I have never in my life seen anything like it. Television does not do it justice, you simply cannot begin to understand how difficult and frightening this track is. I suddenly remember past footage of Brock at the wheel, chatting away to the camera, making small, easy, considered adjustments and I realise he was an absolute master of his craft. It also brings to mind the harsh reality of how dangerous the open road is, compared to the inherent, stringent safety precautions taken with the establishment of a race track.

We’re all back to the track early Saturday morning. Beautiful weather and still not a lot of people. The official attendance figure for the three day weekend is 30,000 which is maybe a little optimistic – I’d estimated about 5,000 on the Friday, about 7,000 on the Saturday and perhaps 10,000 on the Sunday. I know the pictures I’ve displayed feature mainly the West Oz cars, but hey, they were our boys and deserve some recognition for the effort and expense of coming over to Bathurst, What’s more, all four ended up in the top 20, with Ken Coppin scoring 5th! The other West Oz boys were, Anthony Fogliani (No: 24), Rod Jenzen (No: 33) and Grant Howlett (No 9). Then, when I’m just about out of batteries, way up on the top of the mountain, I hear the commentators talking about Daniel Gate, the lone West Australian entry in the Saloon Car races, doing really well in 10th spot. The programme says he’s in a Commodore, but it looks like a Falcon to me! (No 5, in white).

The racing over for the day, half a dozen of us are waiting for the bus at 5.30pm, up the top of the mountain. It doesn’t come and it becomes increasingly obvious it isn’t. I ring up Call Connect to put me through to the Bathurst Racetrack at Mt Panorama. No luck, there is no such place, the operator apologetically tells me. The track-side marshals can’t help us, as their two ways are apparently switched off. Hmm! We decide we might as well start walking down the track and off we go, down through The Esses. Somewhere around Falken Elbow, our bus magically appears, coming up the wrong way, picking up the marshals, We hop on board. The driver’s not remotely concerned about our plight and just shrugs and I don’t mind, it makes a good story to finish the night off. Little did I know that the town of Bathurst had one more trick up its hospitality sleeve.

Ken had booked everyone into a tavern restaurant in the middle of town. Very nice – décor not dissimilar to The Globe at the Perth Hilton. We ordered early, as there were a lot of people and the 12 Hour was due to start at 6.30am the next day. Two hours later, after repeated attempts to get our meals and with nothing to eat to soak up the drinks, we were panicking. But not half as much as the chef. This was a magnificent show, worthy of Basil Fawlty. Stress? You bet. Perspiration pouring down his thin, harried face, continually mopping his brow, yelling at the waiters, at one stage he deliberately knocked all the orders off the hook onto the floor, scattering them across the kitchen. A calm young woman picked them up, but of course, order of orders had gone completely. A frazzled manager came over and offered us free drinks, but we didn’t need any more drink, we needed food! Eventually our table of eight was served -except for me. However, by the time another 20 minutes passed and one amongst us had sent his uncooked steak back – “just too blue Blue”, my fish finally arrived, but by then I was no longer remotely hungry, a headache had set in and I just wanted to get out, which I gracefully did, sending the meal back for some other starving client, of which I am sure there were plenty.

5.45am Sunday morning. I must be mad. Oh well, into the shower and off. Practically nobody there, but the atmosphere was building. Just as the race started, the sun came up, which made photographing the start a little tricky. I then took a walk up to The Chase, to get a different angle on the cars. The Holden wagon looks good, mind you, it’s a direct pinch off Chrysler’s Coke Dealer wagon – I assume they’re paying a copyright fee. One of the Celica’s had an awful sounding exhaust, like a screaming banshee. The turbo Falcon was whisper quiet and the Hyundai was acquitting itself well. The only trouble was, I had to stop taking photos – it was so cold, I couldn’t get my “trigger finger” to push the button! And the cold, rising damp was seeping through my casual Dunlop’s. This was early February – October would be bloody dynamite!

I decide to wander over and have a look at The National Motor Racing Museum. It is fabulous, with an incredible selection of iconic race cars and motorbikes, well worth a visit by anybody. Later, in the afternoon, I walk around the pits. It’s beginning to be a war of attrition, however both Alfa and Hyundai have solved their individual parts crisis, raiding standard cars on hand – it makes sense to me, most dealerships raid new unsold cars for parts, if there’s a problem with an impatient, or angry customer.

The Holden wagon’s had a massive shunt and is out of the race, but it’s nothing compared to the unbelievable accident 57yr old Len Cave has in his Mazda, coming down out of Conrod into The Chase. You’ve probably seen the pictures on the news – the car rolled ten times, travelling at around 250kmh, ripping the engine, gearbox and front suspension out of the car in a veritable fireball. He walked away! His place in motorsport history is already guaranteed legend status, not to mention the inevitable You Tube fame.

The 12 hour finally finished at about 6.30pm, with Mitsubishi and BMW taking out the big places, the Falcon XR6 Turbo was amongst the leading pack of big iron, I’m not surprised. It was fabulous to be there. Of course, you see far more on television, but there’s no atmosphere. I think I’ll have to come over for The Bathurst.

Monday 11 February

Monday morning and the Big Smoke beckons – Syd …e…ney. Just a short hop across the Blue Mountains and a quick dash (hmm!) from one side of the city to the other and I’ll be on the beach in Manly. But first, the papers. Ahh! I feel a bit like Alan Carpenter – there’s no escaping Brian Burke. The familiar fedora and dark glasses are on page three of the Sydney Morning Herald. Next a chat with some media folk and just before I say farewell to Bathurst, a drive around “The Track.” There’s a genuine reason. You see I’m required to get relevant video footage of the promotional tour and the serious side of work is well and truly upon me. The only trouble is, I have absolutely no idea how to use the video camera. There is a 1,200 page manual, written in “Nerd Speak,” but it’s baffling – I mean “Press the Enter button.” BUT, there is no enter button and so on. Yes, I am sure any 12 year old could work it out in half a second, but a middle aged cove working on logic alone, has no hope.

Anyhow, I’ve decided to try and kick start the bloody thing and film a lap around Mt Panorama. Eventually, somehow, I get it to Format The Disk and suddenly it fires up. Away we go. Half way up Mountain Straight, I see the winery cellar door and an ad reading, “Brock Memorial Wine.” Gotta have that. I drive round again, pull in and buy a red and a white. Do I want a taste? No I don’t think so, the radiator is full, but it’ll be a great souvenir. I purchase a set of Mt Panorama glasses as well. Sucker I am. I set course for Oberon and thence to the Jenolan Caves.

There’s something that’s been bothering me about rural NSW towns – they all seem to have angle parking. “Good,” I hear you say. Yes, BUT, it’s the opposite angle to your approach, in other words, you have to back in, with the nose of the car pointing in the direction you were heading. In principle, it’s not a bad idea, but in reality, I notice that people are very wary about backing to the curb – they can’t see where the rear of the car is, so they back very slowly, for fear of damaging the car. It holds everybody up. It doesn’t work.

But no matter, what a beautiful road, a wonderful winding route up through the hills, across the top and then down, down, down, down, into the very depths of the earth. The scenery is magnificent and the Old World Caves House hotel at the bottom, is an unexpected delight. The tunnel road is closed for another 35 minutes, so I order a long black and sit on the veranda, surrounded by blue wrens, exquisite parrots and the beautiful sound of bell birds all through the bush. It really is a magic place. I vow that if I am ever lucky enough to fall in love again, I will bring the lady here.

Up and away. And I’m glad when the road finally comes out on top of the mountains again, there are fallen rocks everywhere. I suspect there’s a fair chance you could have a small rock fall on your car at any time. The desire to play tourist gets the better of me once again and I decide to make a quick stop at Katoomba to photograph The Three Sisters. Oh my God! There are tourists, coaches and cars everywhere and boy are the locals ever in on the act. The minimum fee for parking the car is $3.50. I take a couple of shots and yes, it is beautiful, they truly are Blue Mountains, but the swarms of people everywhere take the gloss off it all. I can’t wait to get away.

The phone goes. It’s Claire from the office. It seems the water’s been turned off and the evaporative air conditioning isn’t on – not that it’s much good anyhow – I’d better replace the system when I get back. Meanwhile the girls are dying – it’s late morning and 37c and climbing. “Can we go home?”
“Yes.” She also tells me that a client of her husband Adam (who’s the Dowerin Elders manager), was driving to South Australia the other day, in his truck with horses and saw the field day car go past. He rang Adam to ask if he was seeing things. Yep, that was his truck with the York plates. There’s no escape in a sign-written car as obvious as the XR6 Turbo.

I tell Claire I also need air conditioning, (in the car), not because it’s hot – it’s only about 23c, but the humidity is uncomfortable, although the locals are all driving around with windows down. I remember to ask her to change the message on the answering machine before they go – a client has rung me to say it still says “Merry Xmas!”

The one place I really want to see this afternoon, is the Norman Lindsay Gallery and home at Faulconbridge, it means I’ll strike Sydney at rush hour, but I figure it’s worth it. It is. There’s something about Lindsay’s open worship of and delight in women, that’s always stuck a chord with me – I’ve always preferred the company of women, although I do have a few close, much treasured male mates. I loved the film “Sirens” of course, however the etching exhibition at the WA Art Gallery last year, didn’t do much for me and I hoped I was not going to be disappointed, although I was prepared for it. In a way, Norman Lindsay’s work affects me just like Pro Hart – I’m not convinced either were the greatest artists / painters on the planet, but there is something about each artists work – an almost intangible Australian factor.

Lindsay appears to have a perfect eye for the voluptuous, sensual beauty of the female body, but his treatment of eyes worries me. I do however, find three really lovely prints – “Unknown Sea,” Ulysses” and “Spring.” I’ll have them framed when I get back to Perth. And grandad simply cannot resist getting a copy of The Magic Pudding book and a Magic Pudding soft toy for Caitlin.

Out in the gardens, the statues and fountains are right up my alley, in fact, if ever I move to Margaret River, it’s exactly what I would do. I could live at Lindsay’s house, very comfortably. I know, I know, Bathurst to Norman Lindsay! I can’t explain it either – perhaps it’s all in the art of driving. The phone goes, back to business and on to Sydney.

The contrast of the peaceful tranquillity and beauty of the area and Lindsay’s place, compared to the rusty overhead electrical gantries for the railway system is a shock. Miles and miles of awful rusted steel beams. There’s been no attempt to paint them, they just look hideous. I realise what a fantastic job the Lawrence and Gallop / Carpenter governments have done in the West, putting in overhead gantries that at least try to blend in and not to be too obtrusive. The subliminal message in NSW seems to be, “We’re busy, haven’t got time, it’s not important,” – in a state that has the sublime Opera House! But then again, they did let some cretin build that awful apartment block next to it. Noveau Riche?

Traffic. Oh boy! It takes about an hour and a half to cross the city to Manly, although there are no delays, it’s just heavy traffic all the way. And WA is featuring heavily on Drive Time ABC – apparently we’re going back to the 1960s and reintroducing strict rules for the length of school girls skirts for heaven’s sake! Has WA gone bonkers in the last week? People are ringing in with their own silly stories about such stupid rules in the 1950s and ‘60s – I remember them well! NZ was just as anal retentive in those days.

The Accor Pacific Manly is right on the beach. I have work to do, so I order room service. And here I am, it’s just after 11.00pm, the balcony door is open and the surf is rolling in just metres away. The door can stay open all night. I realise how much I miss the ocean and water. Why wouldn’t I, I’m a Piscean after all.

Tuesday 12 – Friday 15 February

If this was a holiday, there’d be a thousand photos of everything from Taronga Park to Kings Cross – hmm, both zoos after a fashion I suppose – however business it is and therefore nothing of real interest to write about, I haven’t driven the car since I arrived on Monday evening. There was however, a little appearance on Ch 7’s “Sunrise” programme yesterday (Thursday 14th) morning.

Now a 7.15am call, means being at the studio around 6.30am and if you’re happily ensconced at the Pacific Manly, well, it’s a fair hike by cab and a 5.00am kick off! Way too early, even for an early riser like me. No matter. The Sunrise studio is on the ground level of a building on the corner of Martin Place and Elizabeth Street in the middle of Sydney’s CBD.

I wasn’t sure what format they would take with me, I just needed to get the message out about wanting people to come and live and work in the Wheatbelt. I became concerned when Wilson Tuckey, (our local Federal member), was shown in Federal Parliament – there were some very disparaging comments and I thought, “Oh bloody Hell, they might swing this one on me and ask me about it,” However they were gorgeous and left it alone. If you saw the interview, you’ll swear my handing the Vasse Felix wine over was a set-up. It wasn’t! Sure, I wanted to present it to Mel and Kochy (although he doesn’t drink), along with two gift books on WA, however there’d been no chance to prepare either of them for it. Mel just happened to drop a line about beautiful Margaret River and the segue was perfect. Even Kochy said to Mel, “You knew!” She didn’t.

The results of that interview are nothing short of astounding! I’ve been in the marketing and promo game for a long while now and never seen anything like it. I would have to say that if you need to get a message across to the Australian public, then either an appearance, or an ad on “Sunrise,” is as good as it ever gets. Phenomenal! In hindsight, one can see the brilliance of Kevin Rudd’s strategy in the last couple of years – and didn’t that work! The only complaint came from my gorgeous granddaughter, who apparently turned to her mum while I was on the box and said, “When’s granddad going to look at me?”

I had, perhaps naively, thought I might get a dozen calls. Try 300, plus 300 emails, with the number growing every hour – a day later! I literally could not cope – I’d be answering the mobile and hear other calls trying to come in, at the same time watching emails fly into the laptop. By 10.30am, I rang the good people at the Wheatbelt Development Commission and said, “We’re in a paradox of wonderful trouble, I need help.” Grant and Allison flew into gear and set up a special email address: grainchange@wheatbelt.wa.gov.au and yes, I will take the credit for the name grain-change, I coined it a few weeks back. They have now seconded three people to man the emails and answer the phones.

We’ve attracted welders, electricians, pilots, truck drivers, plumbers, landscapers, teachers – hey, haven’t we been told that we can’t get them? I’ve now got 12 willing to move and teach in the Wheatbelt. Then there’s doctors (2), nurses, community care workers, working locomotive drivers and a plethora of people, male and female, who all want to be train drivers – can’t say I blame them. Yes, of course there’ll be some who aren’t suitable for various reasons, but I suspect we can place a fair number of the qualified / experienced people in the jobs available.

By 3.00pm yesterday, I’d placed a message on the company mobile, telling people to utilise the new email address and decided I’d collate and start forwarding the emails later in the evening – it took until just after midnight, then I was up again at 6.00 this morning, typing in the hundreds of phone messages, to pass on to the WDC.

But I did take a break late yesterday afternoon, for one of my favourite journeys – a ride on the Manly Ferry – not the cat, the old lumbering green machines. I love that ride! If I lived in Sydney, it could only be Manly. Just the thought of riding the ferry into the CBD everyday fills my heart with a feeling of well-being – any jobs going?? And there is song I’ve always loved, from a band I always loved, you know the one …

Meet e down by the jetty landingWhere the pontoons bump and sprayI see the others reading, standingAs the Manly Ferry cuts its way to Circular QuayHear the Captain blow his whistleSo long she’s been awayI miss our early morning wrestle …

And now it’s midday on Friday and I’m about to stop work for the week. Nifty Nev and the Beautiful Banker are taking me sailing this arvo – we might play recklessly in the wake of the Manly Ferry. And tomorrow morn, I leave Sydney to spend a glorious weekend in the Southern Highlands, with Dennis and Estelle – they tell me I’m going to watch the Australian Women’s Cricket Team . That’ll do.

Friday 15 February

So, Friday arvo and I’m wheeling the XR6 through the back streets of Neutral Bay, looking for the Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron. A very polite chap stops me at the squadron gate, explaining that parking is for members only, “Yes, of course,” I reply, “I’m just here to pick up some gear from Mr Neville Wittey’s boat, but have no idea where to go, would you be kind enough to point me in the right direction?”
“Certainly sir, down through there, up to the left, onto the roof and down onto the Hard. I shall see you back in what, 10 minutes?”
“Well it may be a little longer than that, but thank you so much, it’s so confusing when you’re from the bush.” Smooth as cut glass really.

Nifty Nev was ready, grinning like the proverbial, “We’ll motor over to the Cruising Yacht Club in Rushcutters Bay, stopping to watch the 18′ skiffs Invitation race – I train some of them – then pick up the girls from the club.”

“Tamara” is a beautiful old double gaff rigged motor sailor, built in 1945. Janie (the Beautiful Banker) and Neville purchased her late last year, in fact this would be the first time the Beautiful Banker had been out on her. The only change they’ve made so far, has been to add bow thrusters, worth every penny.

Janie, Jo and Bernadette, having escaped the rigours of the banking world, boarded and with Nifty Nev at the helm, we went cruising, Shark Island, Rose Bay – Aussie Homes John Symonds has a reasonable pad down by the water and Kiwi Nev, another yachty, with a bit of an interest in Alfas, lives close by. Just before South Island, we turned, straight into a veritable amada of yachts, the combined twilight sailing fleets of Royal Sydney and the Royal Oz Naval Association, then past the house of opera, under the bridge, Balmain, turning one last time at Goat Island.

All was well with the world. On the mooring, we sat sipping wine and great fare from DJ’s, as the water lapped around the boat. Mellow, quiet and peaceful. Jo suddenly came out with one of those tales that jolts you into remembering each of us has depth and stories of loss and love, it’s so easy to forget the rich tableau we all live and create.

A decade ago, she oversaw the sale of a shopping centre in Dijon, to a Frenchman she had only ever talked to on the phone. They established a trust, while quietly and unexpectedly, another element crept in – they liked each other. He completed the purchase, then wrote to her and asked if she would come to Paris and see him. She thought about it, “Why not?” He later hesitated a moment when she voiced her agreement, then said, “There is something you must know, I’m black.” Jo still remembers smiling into the phone, thinking to herself, “They say there are three things a woman must do in her life – Go to Paris, fall in love with a Frenchman and make love with a black guy. Greg, I am so lucky, I managed to do all three at the same time.”

Yes, she had to come back to Sydney and gradually time and distance saw communication falter and fade. Then just last week, she picked up the phone and his voice flowed across the line. He had finally traced her, having searched for her, over the last five years. Where it may lead, she has no idea, but there is already a beauty to the tale.

We drove back to Nev and Janie’s apartment at Rushcutters, exchanging gentle tales of life over red wine on their rooftop balcony. A splendid Sydney night. It was time for me to drive back to Manly. “Easy,” said Nifty Nev, “Straight ahead out of the basement, left, left and you’re in the tunnel.” When the sign came up on my left saying Vaucluse, I rang him, “Mate, where the bloody hell am I?” No, I couldn’t tell him how I got there, but we had a great conversation for ten minutes, while he directed me.

Saturday 16 February

Out on the balcony, watching the surf roll onto the Manly Beach, I sipped my coffee and read the Weekend Oz – as one should / must – do every weekend, when I spottedJohn Connelly’s column in the Business Section. A couple of weeks back, he written that he wanted people to send in their favourite Oz driving journeys, I’d emailed him about this trip. He’d graciously awarded me “first prize” and recommend that readers should log on to my blogsite, although the sub editors obviously had trouble with the word Dowerin and decided I lived in Darwin – I must admit we’ve got a couple of old crocs up our way, but it’s not quite Fanny Bay! You are a gentleman, John, thank you.

Time to stroke the turbo in earnest. I looked at the directory, yep, cross the bridge, take No 4, then 7, then hit the Hume for the Southern Highlands. I’d just passed through Parramatta, when Dennis rang, “Where are you? Parramatta? What are you doing there?” He didn’t feel I’d been quite as successful in my fast tracking directions as I had thought and I could hear laughter. “Hmm, well, you are almost on the Hume, I reckon we’ll see you in about 45 minutes.”

The beautiful thing about enduring friendships, is that time and distance have no diminishing effect. It was such a pleasure to see Estelle and Dennis again – we had first met long ago, when Dennis was working for BMW back in Perth and discovered we were both North Shore Kiwi boys – Dennis from Takapuna and me from Northcote. There is also a bond of place with Estelle, for she comes from Broome, a place that tugs eternally at my soul. Her maternal grandfather was Judge Reynolds and her paternal grandfather was “Old HK, The Unsinkable,” yes she’s a Kennedy.

I have never been to the Southern Highlands before. It is a beautiful, beautiful area. They rightly love it, have the most gorgeous home and an almost idyllic lifestyle, with work interrupting now and then. We went cruising, with Dennis at the wheel of the Turbo. “Oh Gregory, isn’t she wonderful, the power!” He’s a car man at heart you see. Round Bowral way, we parked at Bradman Oval (opposite the Don’s boyhood home) and watched the Australian Women’s Cricket team play the English, before taking the obligatory tour of the museum.

Mittagong, Bowral, Moss Vale, Southern Forest, Bundanoon, Exeter, this area takes my breath away, I could live here in a flash. In fact I want to. There is nothing like this in the West, gentle, elegant, green, bookshops, antique shops, fabulous cafes and restaurants at every corner. It’s not “Flash Harry” in that Dunsborough way, just classy and so comfortable.

That night we dined at Esco Pazzo in Mittagong and to my utter joy, they served New Zealand whitebait fritters! I had searched half the North Island for them last year but found them nowhere and here they were. We duly washed them down with a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, after which I presented the owner with two bottles of Vasse Felix, telling him it was the only thing missing from his wonderful restaurant – I suspect he has not had a customer do that before.

Sunday 17 February

There is the most incredible painting of a tree in the hallway of Dennis and Estelle’s, it’s riveting in its unbelievably intricate detail and form. I’ve never quite seen anything like it. There seems to be a story in every stroke, every layered piece of bark, nobody who loves trees could fail to be moved and enchanted. “Where on earth did you find this,” I asked.
They smiled, “The artist is in there on the computer, it’s our son Jeremy.” Their son and heir is a touch embarrassed by my enthusiasm, then tells me he hasn’t painted anything since! I lapse into shocked silence, then lecture mode. He may not thank me, he may well be glad to see me head off for Canberra in the morning, but nobody with such a gift has the right to deny the world such talent. We talk of my meagre talent for taking the odd snapshot and how I would kill to paint. Should you read this Jeremy, I’m still nagging, ya gotta go for it mate!

The lovely Rachel, (Ms Ciprian), agrees to accompany us on our Sunday drive. We stop at Mittagong’s Marmalade Cafe and another miracle! I knew I loved this place. The milkshake is served in the ice-cold aluminium container, a real chocolate milkshake, filled to the brim. I am in Heaven, a time-warp, back to my childhood days in New Zealand. There is a book shop, I find a copy of “Across the Nullarbor” and buy it. Another book shop, another impulse purchase, a superb, uniquely different edition of “Kama Sutra.” An antique shop and a wonderful replica of an old sign for Brough motorcycles. I have to have it. A gift shop and the most exquisite music themed coasters I’ve ever seen, perfect for my wooden eight seater table. I have to have them. “Dennis, get me out of here, I can’t afford the place!”

My hosts find a fabulous old pub, the Village Hotel at Burrawang. A pinot noir and some chocolates, as we look out over rolling green tree-lined hills, a perfect background for a family photograph. Back in the car, the roads offer an almost overwhelming source of beautiful countryside, straight out of some country squire magazine. Mind you, Dennis and Estelle have a lovely garden to wander around, complete with a young Pan serenading red flowers across a small pond.

As I write this, it’s almost 10.00pm Sunday night, the log fire’s burning, the wine’s settled and the duet from the “Pearl Fishers” has just finished playing. It really doesn’t get much better than this. To friendship.

Monday 18 February

It’s the middle of February, yet last night Dennis had a fire blazing and this morning there’s a beautiful soft, ephemeral mist falling around the trees. It’s sad leaving friends when you really don’t know when next you’ll be in each other’s company. I find it best to get going, doubly so, as I’ve really enjoyed the last few days with Neville and Janie, then Dennis and Estelle. Nights in motels are lonely times if you’re by yourself and I far prefer the company of friends. Estelle has already pointedly told me I should move over and explained that there are lots of very eligible ladies in the district. I am sorely tempted, I’d be half way between my daughter, brother and other family and friends in Aotearoa and my other children, granddaughter and friends back in the West. I certainly haven’t felt so inclined to move in living memory.

As I head back onto the Hume, I realise I’d really rather be heading home now, but I’m committed, there is a job to do. And there are compensations, I love driving – that old saying rings loud and true in my ears – “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

The side trip to Canberra is a gamble. I’ve been trying for some weeks, since mid December, to set up a meeting with Tony Burke, the new Federal Minister for Agriculture, but with no luck so far. It’s feeling very much like a classic politician manoeuvre – “ignore the bastard.” I’d like to talk to him about the future of Federal funding to regional projects and invite him to attend the 2008 Dowerin Field Days and had expressed those wishes in my initial email approach, which elicited no response. Some weeks later I sent another, slightly facetious email, saying that “even bugger off as an answer would at least let me set my schedule” – I figured as a New South Wales union man, he’d connect with ‘cutting to the chase.’ Wrong, nothing. “Hmm,” I thought, rhetorically, “Surely they haven’t lapsed into arrogance already?” Anyhow, I’ve decide to chance it and just lob in and see if I can pull a meeting, although I’m aware that the house is sitting.

I ring the Agriculture Minister’s office. “Oh I’m so glad somebody understands how busy he is,” responds the very polite and genuine young lady on the phone, “But the best way to meet with the Minister, is to send an email request.”
“I’ve done that, twice,” I reply, “but the system stuffs up, as you people don’t answer emails.” Silence, made funnier by the concerned AFP bloke knocking on the car window, who doesn’t like where I’ve parked the car, I follow the lead of our political masters and ignore him, it seems the Canberra method. The polite young lady comes back, “Could I have your number sir and I’ll get somebody to ring?” Oh dear, straight from the book. This mob aren’t talking to anybody they don’t want to.

I ring up Wilson Tuckey’s office, “Come in, come in, Wilson would love to see you, I’ll come down to the desk and get you.” It rather matches the congratulatory emails from Brendon Grylls I’d received over the weekend, re the Sunrise programme, in fact, while I’m in Wilson’s parliamentary office, my phone rings with yet more people wanting to move to the Wheatbelt and once again I have to turn the phone off. One things for sure, I’m not going to meet even the under secretary for the under secretary’s secretary of agriculture, all very confusing for a chardonnay socialist!

Oh well, Dennis has alerted to me to the amazing fact that the War Memorial currently has a Lawrence of Arabia exhibition. It seems appropriate today, as he was hung out to dry by politicians, who totally ignored his advice and left the world with a mess we’re still trying to cope with to this day. I haven’t got the will to chase Burke anymore, it’s Lawrence for me, although I will keep the phone on, just in case.

I find the National War Memorial an incredibly moving place, there is something gut wrenching about the waste and ruin of life, my own father came away a shattered changed man, a fun loving boy returned as a closed, tormented male. And it hasn’t stopped, with the damage to men my own age, who were snared in the treacherous quicksand of Vietnam. And on to an all together different stage of war, not so long ago, I witnessed my much loved ABC, try to ruin the reputation of Vince de Pietro, a good mate and a damn good man. I’ve never quite forgiven Aunty for that sloppy piece of bloody, one-eyed journalism.

Down the stairs and there it is, Lawrence’s robes and headband. I am stunned. There’s more; a ceremonial set of robes given to him by Feisal, the portrait by Augustus John, his 303 Enfield and his dagger! His journals, even the bowls he ate from in the desert. I am simply overwhelmed, although please, I am not forgetting the magnificent Light Horse for one second, it’s just that Lawrence has suddenly become more than myth for me and I love Arab culture and history. Perhaps the words of an Aussie pilot, who worked with Lawrence in 1918, (Lieutenant Stanislaus Nunan), best describe Lawrence of Arabia – “There is a wonderful Englishman here … he is Major Lawrence … he is only about 27 and not very big, but is a real life superman of the variety novelists like to invent … One day he will be around with his red tabs as Staff Major and the next in Bedouin dress … bare feet, flowing robes and headdress … Goes out with a few of his dusky cutthroats and a few camels loaded with gun cotton and blows up trains and the line to Mecca. The Arabs stop him in the street to kiss his robes.”

And something Lawrence wrote has always rung loudly in my ears … “All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes to make it possible.” Halle… bloody …lulah!

Next, Old Parliament House. It’s interesting, but for some reason, I don’t feel a sense of history. Perhaps being the National Portrait Gallery takes one’s mind off the fact that this was once the seat of power. There’s a great portrait of Keating on a wall. I miss that rapier wit, the wonderful unintentional (I think!) arrogance of someone on a mission. Things are looking frightfully bland these days.

The phone still hasn’t rung. Oh well. Might as well go to the National Gallery and pop over to the High Court while I’m around. You know, they get public buildings right in Canberra. Yes, they’re concrete, BUT they work. The High Court is a fabulous example of near perfect architectural concept, thought and practice, the sense of walking into fate, power, answers, decisions, is utterly splendid. I shudder as Perth’s monstrosity flashes through my mind – the Convention Centre, modeled on a cockroach, ruining the cityscape.

I have never yet been let down by the National Gallery, it is a glorious place and currently they have an incredible Australian Surrealist exhibition on show. It is mind-altering. Afterwards, I simply have to take the Sculpture Walk. And just when I’ve photographed the unsettling heads in the pond, a gorgeous tiny blue wren pops out of the reeds, cocks its pretty little head and brings me back to the world of nature. The vivid blue of its feathers convince me. I need to make a purchase at the gallery store – Nolan’s Ned in Tin, come to think of it, I’m going past Glenrowan, tomorrow. Mick Jagger? What were they thinking??

Tuesday 19 February

The 19th day of the trip and time to get back into driver mode. It’s 600 plus ks from Canberra to Melbourne. One of the great things about travelling these days, is you can listen to home town breakfast radio on the laptop, rather than some foreign city news. But bloody Cameron lets me down today – he’s broadcasting from Darwin! Is that a present for topping the ratings again mate? Never mind, at least local WA news gets a run, usually the only West Australian news eastern states journos talk or write about is Brian Burke! He’s like Chicken Man – everywhere!

The weathers going to be warm (by eastern states standards), 27c – 30c, time to get out the shorts. I haven’t had much call for them on this trip. Peak hour traffic in Canberra is about the equivalent of Perth, you really are moving all the time and before long, I’m back out on the Hume Highway heading south. Then it starts, road works for hundreds of kilometres, basically from Yass to Albury (on the border). It certainly augers well for the Hume Highway in the future, but the price to pay at the moment is a slow crawl every five minutes or so, the pace is about the same as travelling the Princess Highway, it must add a lot of time to truckies timetables. It’s pretty country though, very much mixed farming, although more cattle orientated than sheep, but very familiar territory to a West Australian, however, at least when the traffic does flow, everyone’s back up to 120ks.

I’ve slowed down for a little country town called Holbrook, when something ludicrous jumps into my vision – a bloody submarine half buried in a local park. I have to stop, it’s so Monty Python, it’s wonderful. “Why,” burns itself across my brain. It turns out the town was renamed Holbrook in 1915, in honour of Lt. Norman Holbrook, a submarine commander of HMS B11, during WW1 – he won the VC. When the Otway was decommissioned in 1995, the navy gave a fin from the sub to the town, however a fund raising push saw the town purchase the outside skin of the submarine, so even though the ocean’s about 240ks away, it’s not quite as mad as it looks – sort of!

Actually Holbrook is one of the few towns the Hume Highway travels through these days, most are bypassed. Even the famous “Dog in the Tucker Box” at Gundagi, is only really accessible on the other side of the highway and sadly it’s not worth stopping if you’re going south. The road works continue. At one place, there’s a large sign pleading for workers – that’s familiar. It must be one of the largest road construction projects currently underway anywhere in the country, the sheer scale of the operation is massive.

There’s no stopping at the border and the twin towns of Albury / Wodonga are just signposts on the side of the road. I do get off the highway for a short 6k trip to the Victorian town of Wangarratta , for two reasons. The first being a mad song from way back when, by The Captain Matchbox Whoopee Band – Wangarratta Wahine. … “My wahine in Wang, Wangarratta …” It never made any sense, but was wonderfully crazy. I seem to recall it was about a very short affair – heaven forbid that one should use the term “one night stand!” – when the band was travelling the Hume, as all east coast bands did back then. Oh alright, check this out on You Tube, you won’t regret it :

The band was Melbourne based, Camberwell boys. Mic Conway was Captain Matchbox and his brother Jim was / is a fabulous blues harp player – check out the other Captain Matchbox clip on You Tube. Sadly a shocking truck crash in 1979, killed two band members and ruined the band emotionally and financially. These days Mic Conway has his National Junk Band, but unfortunately Jim Conway is battling Multiple Sclerosis.

As I drive into Wang, a huge edifice tells me the town is home to the Australian Jazz Festival, no mention of Captain Matchbox. I stop at the tourist bureau, it’s festooned with Ned Kelly stuff – Glenrowan’s only 16ks down the road – and there’s information galore about the jazz festival, BUT, no mention of Captain Matchbox, or their most famous home-town boy. I ask the young lady at the desk, “No, we don’t have anything about him do we? I suppose we should.” She looks at me strangely and I know she’s thinking, “He’s too old to know about him.” To be fair, some of you will recall Nick Cave telling us in the “I’m Your Man” documentary that he couldn’t wait to get out of Wangarratta, but hell, there’s a portrait of him in our national gallery. Oh well, back to “Give me a home amongst the gum trees …” Stuff it, I hit the iPod and Cave starts playing minor fourths with “Suzanne.”

Next stop, Glenrowan. It’s a two k diversion off the Hume and 2ks back. Now if ever there was a lesson for all towns re not baseing existence on one industry, this is it. The town is Ned Kelly, which makes the fact that the Police Station is the first building you see when you drive in, a little strange. There’s a tourist coach in town, unloading bemused elderly Italian ladies. Think of Ned as a larrikin Don ladies. A couple of shops are doing a thriving business, but almost half the shops in town, (tourist based or otherwise), are closed and for sale. It’s all a bit depressing. I pick up a stuffed Ned for Caitlin, but nothing else has any sort of style. I am very, very pleased that the blue wren made me purchase Tin Ned at the National Gallery.

On the road again. I keep forgetting to mention that the car scares the hell out of truckies … and probably other car drivers … they all think it’s a Candy Car (Police Pursuit vehicle). I’m probably doing more to slow the traffic down than all the road signs in the country. Occasionally, when I hear, “Backdoor, backdoor, Southbound, southbound, black XR6 coming quickly,” I get on the CB and let ‘em know it’s OK.

I’m in the middle of two phone calls, one from my office and another from an employment agent who wants in on the Wheatbelt act – yeah, I know, two mobile phones??? One’s mine and one’s the company’s and yes, they’re both hands-free. Anyhow, a bloke pulls alongside me in a sign-writers ute and indicates he wants me to stop. I do, thinking he probably wants to talk about the sign writing on the car – it impresses a lot of people. Sort of, he’s a West Aussie from Midland, working in Victoria, for a Midland based sign writing company doing signs for the Ray White franchise. He’s wrapped to see somebody from home and LOVES the idead of the Wheatbelt Motorplex. Paul Skully’s his name, he’s the bloke driving the Star Signs ute with the Dockers sticker, wearing a green Wheatbelt Motorplex cap.

A bit of fuel and I’m on the home straight for Melbourne. It’s been a beautiful day to go cruising, warm sunshine and fast moving traffic on a great road system, especially south of the border. I’ve been in an easy-going reflective mood today, listening to Johnny Mathis and Sinatra type stuff. I’d clicked over to Harry Belafonte just before the Caltex. A few tracks in, just as I feel the big city somewhere out there, Belafonte’s magnificent blues track, “Midnight Special” comes on. I’ve loved this since I was a kid – I bought the Midnight Special album from the RCA Club in about 1964. AND, it’s the first recording of Bob Dylan – he’s playing harp. It’s worth a listen and great driving music, ya just gotta edge the foot down a little and sing! … “yonder comes Miss Rosie, piece of paper in her hand …”

That’s a thing, it occurs to me that I’ve hardly seen a car and caravan on this trip and very few luxury cars, accept around Colo Vale / Bowral and Sydney. Not only that, I’ve done almost 7,000kms since leaving home and today’s only the second time I’ve seen a cop car stopped and giving somebody a ticket – a northbound truckie just outside of Euroa.

Melbourne buildings fill the skyline. Good stuff, I’ve always liked Melbourne. Last time I was here, was to see the Royal New Zealand ballet perform “Dracula.” Funny thing, as I pull into the Melbourne Marriot, there’s a theatre opposite and guess what’s on? “Keating, The Musical.” Well, he was known as the Count. I think I’ll book a ticket for tomorrow night.

Wednesday 20 February

Melbourne should really be called Vivaldi – there’s more than a grain of truth to the “four seasons in one day” line and it would also compliment the elegance and culture of the town. I lived here for a while, way back in the early ‘70s, playing a bit of rugby and going to great shows, including a fabulous concert with Leon Russell, who appeared on stage wearing tails and a grey top hat. There were two grand pianos on stage, a black guy playing keyboards along with Russell, who at one stage jumped up on his grand, pumping Cajun from a guitar. It was hot.

I worked for a time as the country rep for Healing Electronics. Hell, I’d forgotten all about the Mansfield Run! When I started, the company decided I would take over a V8 Holden Premier from one of the board members. He’d been up to the snow country and blown the engine – God knows how, those 4.2s were indestructible. Anyhow I went up by bus to get the car with its replacement engine and set off back for Melbourne.

Radial Tuned Suspension, Trimatic box and a V8 thumper. Hey, I could travel around Victoria for a year or two in this sucker. About half way between Mansfield and Melbourne, I found myself on a bridge. Coming towards me was a car and behind that, a tray top dual axle truck. For some reason, the car suddenly stopped. The truck couldn’t and pulled out into my lane. He tried to tuck back in, but lost it. The truck was sliding sideways along the bridge, taking up every bit of space. Sometimes, no matter what you know, there just isn’t any escape route. I knew I was in a lot of trouble and that I was going under the truck. The only thing to do was lie down on the seat and try to keep my head.

The car stopped moving. Somehow, I crawled out of the passenger side door, up against the bridge railing. The new engine had been pushed in through the firewall. Nobody, including me, could believe I was alive. The truck driver was even luckier, he’d gone through the windscreen, into the river below, but was more or less unscathed. Basically nobody was hurt! I took a souvenir and got a lift back to Melbourne. I’ll never forget the look on the sales manager’s face when I walked into his office, “How’s the car?” he said.
“The new engine’s not much good either,” I replied, putting the steering wheel on his desk. The bummer was the replacement car, they didn’t buy another V8 Premier, they gave me a new Kingswood wagon, in puce yellow. Back to the future.

Melbourne’s a great place to have a car, sure some of the major arterial roads – Toorak Road etc, can be slow, (trams), but it’s very easy to get through the city and there’s a logic to the layout of the joint that makes sense to me, whereas I get confused in Canberra and Adelaide. I hope Alannah the Dynamo gets trams up and running in Perth, if anybody can, she can. On my way out to the Confederation of Motorsport (CAMS) in East Malvern, I’m shocked to see some of the trams are painted in a dull two tone grey. It’s bloody awful and I wonder what lunatic thought it was a good idea. Admittedly they blend in with the grey, wet day, but the South Yarra Tram company needs a kick up the backside.

Business done for the day, I try to buy a ticket for the Keating musical. No hope, it’s completely sold out, not even one ticket! Ahh well, I’ll watch television tonight. Keith rings. He’s just arrived back from Thailand and wants to know what I’m doing tomorrow (Thursday). “What do you suggest?”

“Well, I thought we’d meet at “The Sherlock Holmes” have a cleansing ale, then we’ll go to my club for a looooong lunch. There’s a friend of mine I think you’ll get along with, he’s a wonderful cartoonist, does children’s books, we’re doing collaboration together. You’ll need a jacket and tie.” Suits me, I’ve just got one appointment for the morning, “What’s the club?”
“The Savage Club.” He’s got me. On the phone to Ted later in the evening, I ask him about it, he’s not sure either, but then Ted’s originally a Sydney boy. Before I hang up, the gorgeous Jules, wife of Ted, insists I MUST visit Pellegrinis for coffee.

Thursday 21 February

The phone goes first thing in the morning, that’s apart from the regular callers looking to work in the Wheatbelt. Yes, the publicity’s still working – so am I in case you’re wondering! Anyhow, the Tractor and Machinery Association meeting set for Monday 25 in Adelaide is cancelled. Ah well, I’ll head home across the desert a day earlier. The phone rings again. My one appointment for the day is also unfortunately cancelled, which means I probably have to fly over for a meeting in the next week or two, damn it. There’s an email from King Eoin, will I talk about the Clipsal 500 and the trip on Monday morning? What does he mean, “You can talk under wet cement?”

With time to kill, I grab the Oz and set out to find Pellegrinis. To no avail. Sorry Jules, I traipsed up and down Bourke Street, looking like a seagull at Cicerillo’s. In the finish, it was “any café’ will do”. I sit down. There’s little birds flying around the room, occasionally landing on tables, it takes me a second to recognise them – sparrows. I start browsing the Oz. There he is again, Chicken Man, Brian Burke! Sherlock Holmes here I come.

Keith arrives, his usual dapper self, wearing a vivid loud tie, featuring chillies of all colours. It does stand out against the black shirt. I like loud ties, I have a much treasured Liz Davenport Phantom tie – the real Phantom – the Ghost Who Walks! “Shall we go to the club?” says Keith. Blood oath.

We’ve walked to small side street and there is an old building, freshly painted with a large older style wooden door, painted red. We enter another world, a bygone era, straight from the 1920s and 30s. There are artefacts EVERYWHERE and paintings – McCubbin, Lindsay, Streeton. I simply cannot believe what I’m seeing. Cavernous fireplaces, old, old wine coloured leather armchairs, a grand in one room, an upright upstairs. It’s exactly the sort of club the Phantom would meet in, although the Ghost Who Walks doesn’t drink. I look around for a tall cove with a hat, gabardine coat, dark glasses and wolf called Devil. He must be back at the cave.

Keith is greeted with genuine enthusiasm by those at the bar – rightly so for somebody who was a major player in one the world’s super groups. I have sometimes pondered how the world moves – many, many years ago, when I was just a teenage lad. I took a young lady, whose father, from memory, owned the Taranaki Brewery, to see the Seekers in concert at Pukekura Park in New Plymouth, never imagining that years later, one of the performers would become a good friend. Actually, he’s always said that that particular concert was a lovely night.

Back to the Savage Club, so named after Richard Savage, an eighteenth century poet, along with the double-entendre of the spirited nature of its founding members, people such as Sir Arthur Streeton, Sir John Longstaff, Frederick McCubbin, David Low and Alberto Zelman. There was even a Ming Dynasty – Menzies was Club President from 1947 – 1962. It’s a very civilised joint, far from the madding crowd and home to those who value good-fellowship, literature, music, drama, art and science, not to mention eccentric theatrical behaviour. I feel totally at home. This is a club for me!

Keith introduces me to Michael Salmon. I know in an instant we’ll get along. Anyone who can seriously discuss the role of a cartoon dinosaur in promoting an outback Queensland town, while pouring copious reds, (Michael, not the dinosaur – although there’s an idea!), has my undiverted attention. The wave length is amazingly similar. It’s not often that you find three blokes sitting at a lunch table, drinking red wine, belting out Latin declensions. All becomes obvious, as he castigates me for looking so similar to Derryn Hinch – I’ve been accused of that before! – he’s another bloody Kiwi, (so is Hinch come to think of it), originally from the Beehive capital, he’s even lectured at my old Alma Mater!

We finally “walk” out of the red door just after 6.00pm. I thought six hour lunches had gone! Thank heaven’s there’s still a civilised approach to life somewhere in the world. And that really was the end of the day and a superb Melbourne stay. It’s worth looking at Michael’s website, I must get some of his work for Caitlin. www.michaelsalmon.com.au A lazy night watching the fabulous music series on ABC – Sam Cooke and Cassius Clay singing a duet together?? And that bloody ABC logo all over the screen! Hmm, who’s this Bunyip cove? Ahh! Sleep, gotta dash for Adelaide in the morning.

Friday 22 February

I have long admired clever lines from an old Procol Harum song – “The mirror on reflection, climbed back upon the wall …” It has been a curious day of forgotten memories surging back. A long drive over roads no longer travelled can do that.

There’s a small group of friends and family to whom I send this blog in email form, before posting it on this site. I sometimes wonder of it’s well received, or just seen as mailbox clutter. I’ve got a mate, who I named my son after. We haven’t seen each other for well over thirty years, but we had some fun way back when. I shall take the liberty of reprinting a little of the email he sent this afternoon:

Greg Ross, I’ve been reading your daily accounts from the beginning and thinking about replying and what has finally got me over the hurdle of lethargy was your recounting the crash in Victoria. It must have been 1974 because I was in Melbourne staying with you prior to launching myself on to the travelling scene in South East Asia, and I can remember the great red welt across your torso from the seatbelt. … Your trip has been one of the highlights of my enforced idle days. Tomorrow is Saturday, three weeks since I was operated on for prostate cancer. The surgeon seems to think he got to me in time. Time will tell. The cancer was diagnosed on December 14. Erina and I had air tickets booked and paid for — her to attend and present at her annual ESOL conferences in South East Asia — this time to Cambodia and Thailand. I usually go too, as do Sam, now 17 and Sophie (15), but this year I was to attend the Oregon Truffle Festival where a book — “Taming the Truffle” — I’ve co-authored was to be launched.(see www.timberpress.com/books/isbn.cfm/9780881928600I was supposed to be one of the speakers and I was going to spend a couple of weeks with Scott Bent — did you meet him? I met him in Laos in 1975 and we were both evacuated from Cambodia in March of that year — me by the RAAF. He came through Dunedin early 1976, if I recall correctly. I last saw him at Lake Tahoe in 1980.

Anyway, all trips were cancelled, but the upside is I’m to go to Oregon next January as keynote speaker.

That’s my present situation. I still work — three days a week — at the Otago Daily Times. Erina teaches at the University of Otago Language School — English for foreign students.

… I’ve been going through old letters over the past months with the idea of producing something about or based on that period of my life. Don’t hold your breath (or worry), I’m still the best procrastinator in the business. What I need is some of the drive and energy you so clearly possess. Keep going.Gordon

The need to go sit with my old friend and share a bottle of red or two down Dunedin way is now very strong. Indeed some lovely things happened to me in that southern Scottish city and Gordon was there for most of them. We went out to Port Chalmers one weekend and called in to look at the university aquariums. As I stood watching a seemingly empty tank, save for some seaweed, a seahorse floated out from amongst the leaves. As naïve as you may think I was, I had no idea seahorses were real, I genuinely thought they were a fairy tale. I have never forgotten that moment. Magic does happen.

This morning was grey and drizzly, in that Melbourne way, but no matter, it felt good to at last have turned west, in the direction of home. Yes Rose! I am coming home, although the Southern Highlands are calling, calling. God, the past is calling. I digress. I’m in the middle of the hills and curves east of Bacchus Marsh, when I suddenly remember Barry, the Kodak scientist I flatted with in Camberwell. He had a black drophead E- Type, loved pistol shooting and came from Ballarat. I laugh out loud at the mad, mad memory of the two of us in the E-Type, with pistols stashed behind the seats, top and throttle down, heading out to the gun club on Saturday mornings. Then there was his wonderful mate in Ballarat, who had realised that working was absurd and had come to a complete and quite graceful stop. At one stage, the government found him work, picking weeds from a punt on the lake at Ballarat. He managed to go down with the Titanic. Yes, the HMAS Weedpicker sunk in the lake and there was a wonderful photo on a page of the local rag, with our friend saluting from the sunken ship, knee deep in weeds. I believe “they” desisted from attempting to find him anymore work.

Kryal Castle appears on the horizon, completely bonkers raving mad? I d seem to recall a recent rave party story about the joint. But fancy building a castle in the area where they staged the Eureka rebellion! Still laughing like a drain, I scroll the iPod. Ahh, yes! The Black Sorrows. Their music has aged so damn well. As the rhythm of “Chosen Ones” settles, it somehow matches notching up the pace a nick or two, that sweet, turbo burble has a music of its own.

Somewhere along the way, a sign says ‘Giant Kola.’ Sure enough, just like the lobsters, bananas, prawns and apples across the rest of Gondwanaland, a bloody great Koala has been erected, sorry, sculptured and cast. Hang on, they eat the others don’t they. Be afraid koalas, be very afraid. Like the Tamworth snow dome, it’s so tasteless I have to take a photograph. It’s for sale by the way, along with the tourist park and shop, if you’re looking for a change of life … or a giant koala.

A little further down the road, it’s incredibly windy, leaves and tumbleweed blowing everywhere and small dust storms all around the horizon. I spot what looks to be a piece of bark blowing slowly across the road in front of me. bloody hell, it’s a tortoise, with a long neck, There’s a car coming towards me and I can’t evade too much, so I line him up to try and pass over him. Looking back, thankfully he’s pulled his head in, probably thinking , ” Mummy warned me!”
Then I started thinking, tortoise? Where’s the water for heaven’s sake? Next thing another sign, ‘Green Lake Recreation Area.’ It’s a dry dustbowl, with a forlorn looking abandoned jetty. It reminds me of that dried, dead sea somewhere in Russia. This is not good, the land’s in trouble around here and I’m just 11kms out of Horsham, broadacre country! In fact, as I pass through Horsham, I see the first big machinery dealerships I’ve seen since leaving the WA Wheatbelt, John Deere one side of town and Case the other.

There ‘s a weird thing about roadside rest stops in Victoria – none of them seem to be anywhere near the road, there’s almost inevitably a two or three kilometre drive to reach the rest area. The stop at Wimmera River is a case in point and there sure as hell ain’t no water in the Wimmera. If I was a tortoise, I’d be on the move too.

Just before Nhill, there’s a farmer out doing a bit of weed control, a plume of dust alerts me to the tractor’s presence. The other side of Nhill, the road is atrocious, so bad, they’ve put up signs saying it’s bad and posted an 80kmh speed limit. In the middle of all this, there’s another big sign declaring that fatigue kills – not as much as a dangerous road like this! Fix the road for God’s sake. Not long after, I enter South Australia and the difference in road quality is amazing, smooth, well maintained and safe.

Close to Adelaide, Tailem Bend comes up and I spot the mighty Murray River. It’s a bit surreal, as the land is so bare, it’s a shock to see the river. Then Murray Bridge and up into the hills, past the National Motor Museum and finally the dramatic, lovely steep drive down into Adelaide.

Getting accommodation in Adelaide for this weekend was almost impossible even eight weeks ago, however the Grand Mercure Hotel did have an exorbitantly priced room. The name was reassuring. Wrong. There’s no help with bags, grab your own trolley and walk everything up the stairs. “I asked for parking, I assume that’s organised?”
“Yes, we’ve got parking available downstairs, if you can find a spot.”
Can I leave my car outside while I take my gear to the room?”
“Yes, if you’re not too long.”
“Can I order newspapers delivered?”
“We used to, but they kept getting stolen.”

The vibes are not good here! The room is, well … best taken with a glass or two of red. I open the curtains and look directly out to a blank wall four feet away. It feels overwhelmingly like a cell. Still, the restaurant wasn’t bad and I’ll be spending most of my time at the motor racing. Come to think of it, it’s a very good incentive to get the hell out of here as soon as possible Monday morning – the Nullarbor is looking very inviting!

Saturday 23 February

Saturday morning and I have two days of motorsport, here in the City of Churches. I decide to walk to the circuit, it’s only three ks or so and gives me a chance to walk through Rundle Mall, in the heart of the city. I’m shocked, it’s pig sty, litter everywhere, even in fountains, the place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for a month. I’m still stunned when I get to the Clipsal 500 track and need to use the loo – well, I am 56 and it’s early morning! The portaloos aren’t clean either, what’s wrong with these people? The toilet’s in such a stat, I decide it’s healthier not to wash my hands! My golden rule running events such as the field days, is keep the toilets clean and fresh, the message is you care.

It’s another grey day, with sunshine coming through in the afternoon, although a blustery, cool breeze later springs up. The merchandising is spectacular, food, souvenirs and team merchandise stalls are everywhere, plus bars. I’m a bit concerned about that, it’s just too much. Sure there’s signs saying things like drink sensibly, but the reality is you can’t walk 20 metres without striking another liquor outlet. I guess that’s where the money is, but the sheer pressure of it all unsettles me, not that I mind a drink as you know!

I suddenly find myself walking behind a bevy of very pretty young things, with acres of naked flesh and very, very short skirts. In the finish it becomes more comfortable to stop and look at a merchandising store – some bastard might think I’m following them! And I can’t begin to tell you how difficult it was walking up the stairs in one of the overpass tunnels.

What does impress me, is the size of the event, this is very big and very successful. There are a lot of people here. My estimation later in the day is somewhere around 75,000 – 90,000, in the evening, I’m told it’s 82,000 and this is not the main day, Sunday will be huge. If one accepts that this is a three day event, then it’s fair to say the paying crowd will probably total 200,000 – 220,000 people. We have got to get a street circuit in the West.

A down side of street circuits, is the need for concrete barriers everywhere, they’re very unforgiving, but very necessary. There is a bad shunt mid morning, the driver hit’s the wall at full speed, it looked as though throttle was jammed open. I don’t have a good feeling about it and as I write this, it’s worse, it’s 8.00am Sunday morning and the driver’s on life support. I know I love the sport, but it is incredibly dangerous. There must be a way to get the message across to people, how dangerous driving can be on public roads, (if you don’t drive to the circumstances), by using motorsport as an example of how things can go wrong in spite of enormous care, skill and attention to minute safety detail.

I watch the warm-up for the V8 Supercars, it is an incredible spectacle and the noise is far easier to put up with than the banshee screaming of Formula 1. Then I head over to the 500 Club for lunch. This is a very civilised way of attending the circus, reserved grandstand seating (you need a hat, there’s no roof) and a club environment for a sit-down lunch and, thank God, clean facilities. The people at the table I’m on, have come from Sydney, Mount Gambier (two ladies who’s husbands couldn’t attend, but they still came!) and even MacKay, although I win the distance stakes. And I have to laugh when I see the wine on the table is from Margaret River! Somebody’s stuffed up on the Adelaide / South Oz promotion front.

After lunch, I amble over to the Murray Walker Exotic Car exhibition. Lambos, Ferraris and Audis don’t mean much to me these days, having been marketing manager for them in the west (in years go by), not to mention, Aston Martin, Jaguar, Land Rover, MG (remember them? The Chinese are building them again!), Alfa and even SsangYong, which means Two Dragons – a lovely Korean fable. However the Bugatti, Ford GT and Pagani do grab my attention. I know how good they are.

In my wanders, I pass a large stage, taking a quick photograph, I’d heard there was a Shannon Noll concert on that night, but then somebody tells me it’ll be worth watching the concert on Sunday night, “Why?” said I.
“It’s Santana!”
“Who! Mate, you have my undivided attention. A good friend had bought me a ticket, but as this trip came up, I couldn’t go. Now you’re telling me I can see him!” It turns out my 500 club pass will get me into the show on Sunday night! There is a God / Goddess!

The first race of the season fires up. WA’s home town boy Garth Tander (well, he now lives in Melbourne) manages to get past the front row boys and it’s on! It very quickly becomes obvious the Ford teams have got their acts together this year. Then there’s trouble for Winterbottem, a dead battery and the team loses a minute. Tander also pits several times with trouble and they eventually wheel the car in the garage, although later, they bring it back out, but it never gets up to speed again. Courtney, who looks like he’s going to win, he’s going so strongly, gets caught up passing Jason Richards, who really should have moved over, he was being lapped and suddenly Courtney’s back to the mid field. Eventually he recovers a little to finish in 10th place. The first race of the season is close to a whitewash for Ford. My son Gordon will be ecstatic – he’s a fanatical Ford cove.

It’s also great to see Dick Johnson’s race team (Jim Beam) back in gear, they’ve had a few lean years and a hideous time with a West Australian sponsor, (Norm Carey’s company) who collapsed in a financial quagmire. Sunday will be very interesting, I’ll be the Holden teams worked all night! I’ve only attached a few photos, if you’re into motorsport, there’s a big gallery of about 80 pics on my blogsite.

Sunday 24 February

Sunday kicked off at around 12.45am – I sort of heard my personal mobile ring, but decided, in a deep sleep haze, that I hadn’t. I woke early and was busy writing Saturday’s Blog, when the phone did indeed ring. It was Penny Searle, President of Garrick Theatre. She had tried to get me the night before (WA time) and had some lovely news. Now settle, this doesn’t mean Hollywood and there’s no need for Russell Crowe to look nervous, however it seemed I’d won a Best Supporting Actor award on Saturday night, for my part in “Man & Boy” last year. Wayne Garton deservedly won Best Actor for his role. Chuffed I was.

Out to the track, for the big day and what a crowd, officially, from the Thursday through to the Saturday, the numbers were 197,000 with a further 90,000 to 100,00 expected today. That’s 280,000 – 300,000 people! They would have reached that figure, there was no spare room anywhere today. It’s phenomenal support for the sport and very noticeably, an increasingly large contingent of female fans. NO! Not the paid girls in little short skirts. And yes, I did happen to see them again!

I was heading for the grandstand, when I spotted an old mate, David Bignold, who was once GM of Community Newspapers. When he cranked open Western Suburbs Weekly, I saw it as direct marketing for the Barbagallo Group and immediately started advertising in it. One Christmas, Community Newspapers hired three choppers and took their best clients for a day trip down to Margaret River and back, visiting wineries etc, we lunched at Wise Winery, flew into a brewery and then back to the chauffeured limo waiting at Jandakot Airport. I think we went to Black Tom’s afterwards, but I’m a bit hazy about it!

Anyhow, Dave’s now GM of MTECH Fuel Savers and exhibited at last year’s Dowerin GWN Machinery Field Days. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
“Why?” I replied.
“I want to put one of these fuel savers in your car, you do a squillion miles and get a bucket load of publicity – every bastard in Australia’s reading your blog after the Oz the other weekend.”
“Alright, when?”
“Tomorrow, it’ll take half an hour and you’ll get 20% better fuel economy.”
Hmm. “Listen, it won’t stuff up the turbo will it? I do not want to come to a grinding halt out on the Nullarbor.”
“Nup, it’ll be the best thing you ever did, take this and read it and we’ll put it in at 9.30 tomorrow morning, you’ll be gone by 10.15am.”
“Struth Dave, ya better be right. You know me, I’ll tell everybody if it works and I’ll tell everybody if it doesn’t.”
“Have you been keeping accurate fuel records on your trip?”
“Is the Pope a Catholic?” This’ll be interesting. If you want to know all about it, go to their website: www.mtechsaver.com.au I’ll report how it all pans out on this site.

On with the show. Unfortunately there’s a really bad accident during the ute race. It’s chilling to watch, in fact it looks far worse than yesterday’s horrific smash. I watch the Supercars warm-up, then head to the 500 Club for coffee and lunch. It’s terrible, they announce that Ashley Cooper, the driver in yesterday’s accident had died. Everybody feels down, doubly so, because we’re all very worried about the ute drivers. At this stage, (11.00pm Sunday night), two of the drivers have been released form hospital, however Matt Kingsley still is still there, although thankfully not lisetd as critical.

I give Wheatbelt Motorplex caps and stickers to our table, Belinda and Diane (from Mt Gambier) are back, as are Ben Greer and Scott Horwell from Sydney. Scott’s doubly happy, because his team, “The Rabbito’s” won their match by 44 to 0 last night. He tells me I should ring one of my daughter’s (Jodie) who is a Rabbitto fanatic and tell her. I do, she’s wrapped, doubly so, because the team is apparently coming to play in Perth this year. I promise to get tickets for her. It’s a bit of Ford table this mob and they’re very pleased to learn that I drive an XR6 Turbo. Actually I’ve discovered over the last two days, that the HSV team is not very popular with anybody, Mark Skaife especially, is actively disliked and Garth Tander pays a bit of a price for that. It appears to be a little more than just the usual tribalism between the red and the blue fans.

It’s time to go back to the grandstand for the Clipsal 500 race. There’s not a spare seat in the house. The Airforce drops in, in force – four F18s, They are wildly impressive, no matter how often you see them. A couple of people sing the National Anthem – no idea who they were – a bloke and a bird, at least they weren’t flat – more girls in very short skirts and thigh length boots performs what could loosely be called a dance and suddenly the One Minute board is being waved.

What a race, action packed from start to finish and whenever you began to believe you knew how it was going to end, all hell would break loose. I counted at least ten times when the Pace Car came out. I thought I’d write down exactly how I noted things (on the back receipts in my wallet!).

Supercheap are in deep trouble, Ingalls’ out by lap 6 and the other car’s struggling. Ingall’s car is pushed off the main straight and has to wait while they try to get the other team car running. Not a good 44th birthday present for Ingall.

The Jim Beam second car, no 18 is stuffed shortly afterwards.

The second Jack Daniels car suffers a spectacular engine failure.

By lap 22, Rick Kelly in car 15, watches his car pushed into the garage, but it comes out again.

Veteran Murray Walker is doing a fantastic job as co-commentator.. Old pros are just so damn good.

By lap 25, things are looking good for Tander, he’s moved up two places, past Skaife and Courtney.

Lap 32 and Tander is in trouble, with his car pushed into the garage – a bit of karma really, as Rick Kelly was very obviously holding cars back so that Tander could move up.

Lap 40m and Skaife’s in trouble – his steering is sticking. He’s back out on the track by lap 43.

Steve Richards spins and the Safety Car is out, Tander comes back out. The race restarts on lap 44.

By lap 45, it’s looking great for Ford again, Whincup leading, followed by Courtney, the lone Holden of Holdsworth and then Lowndes.

On lap 47, car 50 driven by Thompson smashes into a wall and the pace car is out again, Skaife comes back out on the track.

Lap 51 and Lowndes and Whincup get past Holdsworth, the Ford boys are beginning to look invincible.

Lap 55, all hell breaks loose. Lowndes attempts to pass Courtney, it looks like he’s nudged, hard to tell, but it puts him off line, he spins and disaster strikes, with both Courtney and Lowndes smashing into walls, taking Winterbottom out as well. Three top running Fords out of the race. The whole thing’s changed dramatically and there’s a huge cheer from Holden fans.

Lap 60 and Whincup still leads but he’s being hotly pursued by McConville, who really deserves to be up in the top league again – he came out to WA and did some Audi track work for me (an Audi client guest day) a few years back and I found him to be a really lovely bloke. He’s followed by Holdsworth and Kelly.

Lap 62 and Coulthard in 111, is stuffed.

Lap 65, Johnson in 17 gets a drive-through penalty, but I’m not sure what for.

Lap 69 and D’Alberto in 55, the Bottle O car, loses a tyre – not a wheel – the tyre bounces all over the track. Safety car is out again, The car limps back and they change the wheel, but he only lasts a lap, the left front end is obviously suffered massive damage.

On the restart at lap 71, Coulthard comes back out again.

Lap 75, three laps before the finish! And Paul Dumbrell in 16 hits the wall so hard he moves it and a forklift has to push it back into place, Then we have a two lap sprint for the finish. Somehow Whincup holds on. The top ten results are as follows:

It’s one of the best races I’ve ever seen in my life, there was barely time to have a drink of water. If this is how close it’s going to be, bring on the rest of the year!

Santana? I stuck around, couldn’t miss it. The music was great, although the sound system was distorting a little, but unfortunately for this little black duck, the crowd was just a little feral – standing room only, (you couldn’t sit down), beer cans everywhere and every third person blowing cigarette smoke. I gave it an hour and thought, “I know why I’ve got that magic home theatre system and the ever-growing collection of concert DVDs,” called a cab and came back to the hotel. Tomorrow, I head for home across the desert, can’t wait, four weeks is a long time on the road.

Monday 25 February

The morning kicks off with Eoin on ABC. It appears he and Brad have nick-named me “The Rev Head Recruiter,” I like that, it’s sort of right. He, like me, really wants to see a street circuit Supercars in the West. I tell him I’m going to ring another mate, Perth City Councillor Chris Hardy. I don’t have to, later in the morning Chris rings me, “You’ve lined me up again you bastard. You know I want it to happen.”
“Alright,” I tell him, “I’ll ring the Blonde Bombshell.”

I’ve always liked Lisa Scaffidi, Perth’s Mayor, so I call her. She’d like it to happen as well, but the city simply doesn’t have the money to pay for it, which I well understand. She reiterates the decision against it was really Events Corp and the State Government – the infrastructure costs (which are, I know, colossal) and also, it was felt that the people car racing attracts are the wrong people!!

Hmm! Oh dear, what does that say about me and Eoin Cameron? Although, I do recall a snotty Western suburbs bling covered real estate flogger’s wife, telling me at a black tie function a couple of years back, “You? You’re just a larrikin.” I took it as high praise. The feeling over here in the eastern states, is they’d like a Perth based street circuit for the V8 Supercars and the Wheatbelt Motorplex for motor cycle racing and second tier car racing. I’ve got some work to do when I get back.

I get out of the strange Marriot hotel as soon as possible and drive over to Pulse Automotive at Norwood, for the fuel saver to be fitted. As I said to Eoin, I’ve got memories of Peter Brock’s Polariser crystal disaster, but who knows. The fittings all very professional and like Dave said, quick. The air cleaner lid come off and they fit a small ceramic air flow sensor, a ceramic water temperature sensor is fitted around the water pump housing and two more ceramic sensors are placed into the fuel tank. These days, with anti syphoning devices, you can’t get things in through the tank entry and they do have to go in through the plate under the back seat, but it is genuinely a 35 minute exercise. The cost for the kit is apparently $399 and there’s a $50.00 fitting charge. Dave tells me the fitting process is vital, if there’s a problem, it’s inevitably in the fitting.

They fire the car up and rev it for a minute or two, apparently to get the car’s computer systems used to the changes in air and water, plus the altering state of the fuel – it’s magnetic impulse based. I sort of understand, but my eyes do glaze! One things for sure, I’m not going to alter my driving habits, that is, drive for absolute economy, if it’s going to give up to 20% better fuel economy, it has to happen with all driver styles. Dave tells me it can take a day or two for the massive computer systems in cars these days to adjust and they never really know from vehicle to vehicle. With that, I’m out of the city of churches.

I’m half way up the track to Port Augusta, when the CB goes, it’s the bloke in the truck I’ve just passed. He wants’ to know about the field days, as he and his partners have a new fertiliser company they want to promote. I pull up and give him a copy of our Prospectus. Advertising on the car is very, very effective. The view from the road close to Port Augusta, across to Spencer Gulf is quite lovely. Port Augusta itself, always reminds of Port Hedland. Just before the number one highway turns right and becomes the Eyre Highway, there’s some graffiti covered water tanks I‘ve always meant to stop and photograph.

Covered in football final cheer quad messages, there’s also some fascinating “art” and social messages. I can see what people mean when they talk about graffiti artists, there’s definitely a lot of talent involved, but I hate the lack of respect for property. It’s a conundrum. One of the more spectacular pieces of work contains the deliberate statement – “A dingo ate my baby.” Yet I’m sure the work’s not that old. The Harley sign has the words “Armidale WA chapter” scrawled above it and there’s a very poignant message from family and friends re somebody who’s died. The whole scene is quite telling in terms of social structure and travellers past and present.

Time for music again, the country is my sort of country – iron ore (Iron Knob’s up and running again), mesas, hills and good roads. Ah yes, The Animals. “House of the Rising Sun: fills the cabin, Both loud pedals up. Go. “We gotta get out of this place ….” I remember taking my son Gordon to see Eric Burden at the Regal Theatre a few years back. He turned to me and said, “How come this old bloke is playing these songs?” I think I’m getting older!

At Kimba, the half way point across the continent between Perth and Sydney / Melbourne, a group of motorcyclists pull in to refuel. The weather’s gorgeous and I suddenly miss my bike. Chris Roberts (Waroona), Michael Kyte (Armadale) and Damien Hancock (Mandurah) are on their way to Phillip Island for the motor cycle racing and then going touring around Tassie. We chat about the Wheatbelt Motorplex and I hand over the last three caps. Next thing, a fantastic combination pulls in, this time heading west. Norman Menadue and Sandra Harris have just done a month long trip around the Snowy Mountains. Theirs is a great touring set-up – big comfortable big towing a trailer, which is set up for power – hell they even have a laptop. We chat away, then it’s time to a make a mile, like me, they’ll make for Ceduna for the night.

A quick calculation for fuel consumption (I’d refuelled on the way out of Adelaide and then again at Kimba). 439.5 kilometres and 42.5 litres of fuels. Hmm, at first glance, that’s down from about 11.2kml to 10.402kml. Way too early, but interesting and believe me, I wasn’t stuffing around, the horses and I were playing.

Tuesday 26 February

Tuesday morning and what will probably be the second to last day of the trip. It’s going to be a long haul, probably to Norseman, but maybe to Kalgoorlie, perhaps even home, we’ll see. Time for the Rev Head Recruiter to hit the road.

It’s a beautiful day, quite different weather to the start of the month. The first town I pass though is Penong, about 70ks west of Ceduna, a funny little place – their welcome sign spells Nullarbor incorrectly, but it’s nicely done and there’s a curious assembly of windmills on the eastern side of town, presumably water has long been an issue out here.

I’m just settling into a rhythm, when I come across a shocking reminder of the carnage inflicted on our wildlife. A wombat has been terribly injured and is literally crawling in agony across the road. Its pain is palpable and heart wrenching. Thankfully I still have mobile range and put a call through to the police at Penong, asking them to come and do what has to be done. Damn.

The Eyre Highway around Yalata is quite lovely, the road is very straight, but made up of undulating tree covered hills on old stabilised sand dunes. It’s a welcome panacea after the poor old wombat. However it’s not long before the trees disappear and the Nullarbor welcomes me. There’s a bit of a misunderstanding about the actual Nullarbor with many travellers. In fact the Eyre Highway only touches on the true Nullarbor briefly in South Australia and very briefly around Caiguna in Western Australia, most of the vast treeless plain lies to the north of the highway.

I love it out here, always have done. They talk about the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, but out here, the road seems to run along the very edge of the earth. The way the cliffs break and tumble into the power of the Southern Ocean is awe-inspiring, truly the Great Australian Bight. It’s the wrong time of the year for whales (May to October in case you’re wondering), but the day is so lovely, that I know I’ll get a couple of great shots at one of my favourite site-seeing stops. Sure enough, the cliffs are bathed in sunlight, the ocean is an almost tropical blue and there’s even a small pod of dolphins feeding in the waters below. A young German family are overwhelmed with the beauty, epic size and isolation of it all. We agree it brings tears to the eyes. Back to reality, I must be getting close to home, the bloody flies are in! By the way, this spot is just on 75kms from the WA border.

I’d fuelled up at the BP in Ceduna and filled up at the BP on the border, the same places I’d stoped at on the way over, mainly because I’ve been travelling at similar speeds, so it’ll make for a reasonable fuel comparison when I get home and have time to compare notes and dockets. This morning’s consumption works out at 47.69 litres for 475.8kms, which is pretty damn good. I’m impressed. Of course it needs a more critical long term analysis than a couple of fuel dockets, but I’m beginning to get a gut feeling there might be something in this fuel saver. We’ll see.

I call into the Amber Motel at Eucla, my old stomping ground in my Greyhound days, it’s looking a little unloved. Steve Patupis, the truckie who started it way back in the early 1960s has now passed away, however his family still run the joint. My Eucla connections are wide spread. Way back in the late 1980s, (about 1987 from memory), a fashion designer named Eero Tarik built himself an underground home out on the plain. He and a young lady fell in love and decided to get married. Theirs was the first (and I think only), marriage at Eucla in the 20th century. I covered the wedding for Woman’s Day magazine, (as a photographer) and my white Rover 3500 hatchback was the wedding car. I must try and find those photos, it was very Lawrence of Arabia. I ask about Eero at the roadhouse, just a blank look, that seems to say, “Oh God, another brain-dead traveller.”

I drive down to the ruins of the old telegraph station complex. It’s almost completely covered now, the shifting white dunes are slowly, but very surely, reclaiming mankind’s puny effort. Taking a new bottle of water out of the fridge, for some reason the copy of “Across the Nullarbor” that I’d found in Bowral, falls off the seat. I know I have to call and see if Harvey Gurney’s home and still remembers me. There’s that circle of life thing again. My boyhood and lifetime mate, Colin Cleave, had emailed me the other night, reminding me that I was in New Zealand at this time last year, in fact, it will be Lisa and Aaron’s first wedding anniversary this coming Saturday. Time! Where does it go?

Harvey and Nancy Gurney’s home is perched on top of the Hampton Tablelands, overlooking the Eucla Pass. The view across to the ocean is stunning and they’re home. In fact Nancy’s running a great cottage industry, making quilts to order for people all over Australia. The internet gives her constant access to everyone everywhere. It really is an amazing tool. She proudly shows me a couple of quilts she’s just finished, one for a chap in Perth, who’s ordered it for his yet-to-be-born granddaughter and another for a died-in-the-wool Melbourne football fan, in the team colours, with a football motif stitched throughout.

We chat over coffee, about old times and gossip and try to remember exactly what year it was that Ion Idress and my uncle (Colin Smith “The Super”) came though and stayed with Harvey’s mum and dad. He remembers them both very well (in fact they came again a few years after the first trip). We finally agree that it was the year of my birth, 1951, as Harvey was 12 years old at the time. I tell him I’ll check with my cousin Hope back in NZ, she might be able to confirm the year. There’s a lot of pleasure for me, in sitting here 57 years later, continuing the two families association. Not only that, Harvey’s got years of old home movie footage, including stuff featuring Idress and my uncle, but of course they can’t play it any longer. I suspect there’s some great history in those cans and promise I’ll have a chat to my friends at “Postcards WA” about transferring it all to DVD. And one thing Nancy and Harvey have always promised themselves, that they’d one day attend the Dowerin Field Days – they’re coming this year.

Out on the Eyre, I’m in that lovely happy, mellow, memory – contemplative state. Time for the “I’m Your Man” soundtrack. Wainwright’s as camp as a row of tents and consequently there is something a little incongruous when he sings Cohen’s heterosexual lyrics, but hell he does great interpretations. Then Perla Battala comes on, with her stunning version of “Bird on The Wire.” It’s magnificent – her powerful emotional voice, an accordion, double bass, drum kit and sympathetic organ. Goose bump territory.

Up through Madura Pass, time and distance fly. Yeah, Dylan’s magnificent, “Blood on The Tracks” – … “the only thing I knew how to do, was to keep on keeping on.” I refuel at Caiguna and hit the 90 mile straight, just as what I think is the greatest love song ever written fires up –
“If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangiers …”

I look at the time and quickly glance at the map. Yeah, I’ll make it to Kalgoorlie just on nightfall, which is good, as Lloyd Morley, Telstra’s WA Regional Manager had asked me to call in if I can. He’s very concerned about the difficulties I’ve been having with mobile phone coverage, he thinks the phone might need recalibrating or something. I like Lloyd, he’s a nice bloke, I’m always a bit sorry when I have a go at Telstra over mobile phone coverage, but hey, it’s not personal.

When I eventually get home, I’ll sit down and do all the fuel and distance figures for the car. Suffice to say, I’ve reached the conclusion that the Ford Falcon XR6 Turbo, is possibly one of the greatest touring cars Australia has ever produced. Two motoring editors, Neil Dowling (Sunday Times) and Bill Buys ( Community Newspapers) had advised me about how good the model was, when I was investigating the purchase in November last year. You were right gentlemen. Of course, you can’t really try the car out on public roads, but a couple of track stints confirmed how unstressed and capable the car is: At 200km/h, the engine’s just ticking over at 3250rpm, consuming 23.8 litres per 100kms and at 215km/h, she’s still doing it easy at 3,500rpm, using 26.6 litres per 100kms. I should add, there’s more punch left at 215kmh, but racetracks don’t go on forever – running out of road is disconcerting.

Back to the 90 mile straight – alright, the 146km straight – see, it just doesn’t have the same romance when you say it that way, which is strange, as French is supposed to be the language of love and emotion, but when you express distance in kilometres, it just sounds … technical. The road ahead is turning that blue sky mirage haze of a warm day.

Norseman, a quick refuel and I’m on my way north to Kalgoorlie. Ten ks out of town and the road train in front of me has to take evasive action. Then so do I. There’s a drunken Aboriginal bloke wandering all over the road, walking down to Norseman. He’s using both lanes, lurching from side to side, waving and smiling! This is going to end in tragedy, not just for him, but for the poor unsuspecting driver who collects him. And so I finish the day as I started, calling the police. Phone call done, the radio comes back on. The WA Premier is backing calls to restrict benefits paid to some Aboriginal families, converting the payment into food vouchers, in an effort to try and stop the hideous alcohol problems that ravage many communities. Carol Martin, the Kimberley MLA, is interviewed, saying we’re not addressing the problem in a culturally sensitive way. I know what she means, but I’ve just dealt with the reality.

10,380kms, $1645.00 worth of premium unleaded – sorry, it’s too hard to work out the exact fuel consumption – some dockets don’t show the actual litres purchased, however as a rough guide for a 2 tonne car laden to the gunnels with stuff, (and not driven like a Getz on the way to a bowling club match), fuel consumption appears to have been somewhere around the 9.85kms per litre, which ain’t half bad … if you knew what I know!

Now on to the MTech fuel saver, it is still way too early to say what the definitive effect is and to be honest, I’ve been so busy back at work, I haven’t had time to concentrate properly on trying to ascertain what is happening, BUT! “Pre MTECH” on the trip, whenever I refuelled the car, the computer would tell me I had a safe range of 575kms. Now, when I refuel, the computer tells me I’ve got a safe range of 656kms! I have very definitely NOT changed my driving style, the car IS a lot lighter (not packed for a month on the road) and it’s motoring up and down the return 325km road trip between Dowerin and Perth every couple of days.

I’m now keeping a dossier on the amount of fuel and kilometres, which unfortunately I stuffed up last week, by putting standard unleaded in the car, fuel consumption collapsed – it is very definitely worth the extra price of premium, for the net gain in extra kilometres. But back to the MTech Fuel Saver – my gut feeling is getting stronger that is actually works! God knows how, but it is increasingly looking like it’s giving me an extra 75 – 100kms out of each tank of fuel, which, if it proves correct, more or less matches the claimed 20% increase in mileage. I’ll post a weekly update on my Blog Site on Saturday mornings, giving exact fuel consumption and mileage figures. If it does work, you’d have to weigh up the $450.00 fitted cost against the mileage you do, to work out how quickly you’d recoup your money. Although if the claims about reduced emissions are correct, then the World (and your grandkids) are way in front anyhow! If, like me, you do high mileage, or you’re running a fleet of vehicles, this invention might just be a small Holy Grail!

I looked at this blog and discovered I’ve written in excess of 27,000 words about the trip! Oh well, my brother Steve loved it, although cars bore him to death and at least I was able to remind daughter Lisa, that her first wedding anniversary was due, not to mention Oscar and Susie, who are dreaming of returning to the West and drinking Vasse Felix! In fact, to those who sent emails, I know, I know, I owe you a response, apologies, it’s coming!

What have I learnt? Not as much as I’ve forgotten, however, I figured when the Federal Minister for Agriculture gave me the brush-off – not even a “sorry he’s busy,” that the new Labor government probably had very little interest in the bush, that’s been confirmed by an email I received at work today. I suspect this is a Federal Government for the city, not the bush. I want desperately to be wrong.

There is practically no police presence in regional Australia, nobody’s out there patrolling the roads, they’re in the cities and the large regional centres, but you’re on your own out the back of beyond and in many cases, in front of beyond. On the other hand, I saw practically no bad behaviour out on the open road, no tail gating, no aggressive, mad 4WD owners, nothing but courtesy, so the police probably don’t need to be there.

People still treat the journey across the Nullarbor as The Great Trip – drivers wave and smile instinctively, but that stops as soon as you reach major towns. City drivers in the eastern states are so much better educated and patient than Perth drivers, who have no idea about merging, or anything else to do with the smooth flow of traffic. Only in Perth is the fastest lane the left lane, as everybody refuses to get out of the right hand lane. Oh, yes, while there are fixed speed cameras on highways, taking footage to check times on trucks (safe rest periods), I never saw a Multa Nova cameras hidden anywhere, until I returned to Perth. I arrived home in time for the long weekend and the “Road Safety Blitzkrieg” with Double Demerit points. It is so bloody pointless, people still kept killing themselves and the Multa Nova cash registers kept ticking over, making a fortune. One can only conclude that the authorities are not serious about reducing the road toll. Yes, they make “tut tut” noises, but that’s all. The treasury coffers continue to fill, for what?

Tired? You bet, 27 days on the road by yourself is a long time, would I do it again? Well, there is the glorious Matsos’ Run coming up in mid May, but yes, I’d do it again. Will I move to Bowral / Colo Vale. Do not tempt me!! Dennis, do they need an event organiser, a West Coast Promo man, a marketing manager, a journo?? Would I take somebody with me next time? I hope so.

I’ve made one last Wheel Dreaming album with a few more photos to wind things up, a couple feature flint I found long ago at Eucla, you can see where one piece has been worked into a tool, then there’s the glorious hunk of limestone, absolutely full of fossil shells, I‘ve had it for years. The souvenirs I purchased are now hanging on the garage wall – feast your eyes on the Brock Le Mans ad. Daughters Jodie and Saraj loved their sculptured mermaids (from the Norman Lindsay Gallery – I couldn’t mention them in the blog, or they’d have known!), granddaughter Caitlin was straight into her pink V8 Princess T-shirt, while son Gordon has managed to wear every V8 / Bathurst and Clipsal shirt this week.

Arrived home last Wednesday arvo, to a mountain of mail, amongst which, was a parcel from Sydney. It was from John Connolly (The Australian), a fabulous book, “Ultimate Garages” and a letter wishing … “may your road trips continue.” I’ll drink to that. Now, is there a lovely lady who would like to share the journey for the next decade or two?

Thanks for sharing my journey, may all your dreams come true.

One for the Road

10,380kms, $1645.00 worth of premium unleaded – sorry, it’s too hard to work out the exact fuel consumption – some dockets don’t show the actual litres purchased, however as a rough guide for a 2 tonne car laden to the gunnels with stuff, (and not driven like a Getz on the way to a bowling club match), fuel consumption appears to have been somewhere around the 9.85kms per litre, which ain’t half bad … if you knew what I know!

Now on to the MTech fuel saver, it is still way too early to say what the definitive effect is and to be honest, I’ve been so busy back at work, I haven’t had time to concentrate properly on trying to ascertain what is happening, BUT! “Pre MTECH” on the trip, whenever I refuelled the car, the computer would tell me I had a safe range of 575kms. Now, when I refuel, the computer tells me I’ve got a safe range of 656kms! I have very definitely NOT changed my driving style, the car is a lot lighter (not packed for a month on the road) and it’s motoring up and down the return 325km road trip between Dowerin and Perth every couple of days.

I’m now keeping a dossier on the amount of fuel and kilometres, which unfortunately I stuffed up last week, by putting standard unleaded in the car, fuel consumption collapsed. It is very definitely worth the extra price of premium, for the net gain in extra kilometres. But back to the MTech Fuel Saver – my gut feeling is getting stronger that is actually works! God knows how, but it is increasingly looking like it’s giving me an extra 75 – 100kms out of each tank of fuel, which, if it proves correct, more or less matches the claimed 20% increase in mileage. I’ll post a weekly update on my Blog Site on Saturday mornings, giving exact fuel consumption and mileage figures. If it does work, you’d have to way up the $450.00 fitted cost against the mileage you do, to work out how quickly you’d recoup your money. Although if the claims about reduced emissions are correct, then the World (and your grandkids) are way in front anyhow! If, like me, you do high mileage, or you’re running a fleet of vehicles, this invention might just be a small Holy Grail!

I looked at the blog and discovered I’d written in excess of 27,000 words about the trip! No wonder I haven’t heard from some of you! Oh well, my brother Steve loved it, although cars bore him to death and at least I was able to remind daughter Lisa, that her first wedding anniversary was due, not to mention Oscar and Susie, who are dreaming of returning to the West and drinking Vasse Felix! In fact, to those who sent emails, I know, I know, I owe you a response, apologies, it’s coming!

What have I learnt? Not as much as I’ve forgotten, however, I figured when the Federal Minister for Agriculture gave me the brush-off – not even a “sorry he’s busy,” that the new Labor government probably had very little interest in the bush, that’s been confirmed by an email I received at work today. I suspect this is a Federal Government for the city, not the bush. I want desperately to be wrong.

There is practically no police presence in regional Australia, nobody’s out there patrolling the roads, they’re in the cities and the large regional centres, but you’re on your own out the back of beyond and in many cases, in front of beyond. On the other hand, I saw practically no bad behaviour out on the open road, no tail gating, no aggressive, mad 4WD owners, nothing but courtesy, so the police probably don’t need to be there.

People still treat the journey across the Nullarbor as The Great Trip – drivers wave and smile instinctively, but that stops as soon as you reach major towns. City drivers in the eastern states are so much better educated and patient than Perth drivers, who have no idea about merging, or anything else to do with the smooth flow of traffic. Only in Perth is the fastest lane the left lane, as everybody refuses to get out of the right hand lane. Oh, yes, while there are fixed speed cameras on highways, taking footage to check times on trucks (safe rest periods), I never saw a Multa Nova cameras hidden anywhere, until I returned to Perth. I arrived home in time for the long weekend and the blitzkrieg about Double Demerit points. It is so bloody pointless, people still kept killing themselves and the Multa Nova cash registers kept ticking over, making a fortune. One can only conclude that the authorities are not serious about reducing the road toll. Yes, they make “tut tut” noises, but that’s all. The treasury coffers continue to fill, for what?

Tired? You bet, 27 days on the road by yourself is a long time, would I do it again? Well, there is the glorious Matsos’ Run coming up in mid May, but yes, I’d do it again. Will I move to Bowral / Colo Vale. Do not tempt me!! Dennis, do they need an event organiser, a West Coast Promo man?? Would I take somebody with me next time? I hope so.

I’ve attached a few more photos to wind things up, a couple feature flint I found long ago at Eucla, you can see where one piece has been worked into a tool, then there’s the glorious hunk of limestone, absolutely full of fossil shells, I‘ve had it for years. The souvenirs I purchased are now hanging on the garage wall – feast your eyes on the Brock Le Mans ad. Daughters Jodie and Saraj loved their sculptured mermaids (from the Norman Lindsay Gallery – I couldn’t mention them in the blog, or they’d have known! Granddaughter Caitlin was straight into her pink V8 Princess T-shirt, while son Gordon has managed to wear every V8 / Bathurst and Clipsal shirt this week.

Arrived home last Wednesday arvo, to a mountain of mail, amongst which, was a parcel from Sydney. It was from John Connolly (The Australian), a fabulous book, “Ultimate Garages” and a letter wishing … “may your road trips continue.” I’ll drink to that. Now, is there a lovely lady who would like to share the journey for the next decade or two?